Cassandra: Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen, and a woe; Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen go. Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears! Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our fire-brand brother, Paris, burns us all. Troilus: We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it; Nor once deject the courage of our minds Because Cassandra's mad; her brainsick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel, Which hath our several

In holy, humble attitude she kneeled; And to her bosom, fair as moon-beam, pressed One hand, the other lifted up to heaven; Her eye, upturned, bright as the star of morn, As violet meek, excessive ardour streamed, Wafting away her earnest heart to God. Her voice, scarce uttered, soft as Zephyr sighs On morning lily's cheek; though soft and low, Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat. A tear-drop wandered on her lovely face; It was a tear of faith, and holy fear, Pure as

Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ Pronounced: zo-EE moo, sas a-ga-PO Meaning: “My life, I love you.” Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. II By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Ζωή μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. III By that lip I long to taste; By tha

Of thee, the sainted Shepherd, Far out in Judah’s wild; Messiah’s young forerunner, The God-anointed child! How shall we tell the rapture, That dwells upon thy face; Or paint, in earthly language, Its mild, seraphic grace? Thine was the lofty mission To bear thro’ night Judea’s land, The world-entrancing tidings, A Saviour was at hand! & from thy youthful presence, There gleamed such light & love, That, like cherubic music, It bore the soul above!

Song embedded in Canto III of Don JuanWhere burning Sappho loved and sung,Where The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet; But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than