As our ploughshare is the Sabre: Here's the harvest of our labour; For behind those battered breaches Are our foes with all their riches: There is Glory--there is plunder-- Then away despite of thunder! [From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray, now for the first time printed.] FOOTNOTES: [131] "Bouwah!" is their war-cry. [LOVE AND DEATH.] 1. I WATCHED thee when the foe was at our side, Ready to strike at him--or thee and me. Were safety hopeless--rather than divide Aught with one loved save love and liberty. 2. I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock Received our prow and all was storm and fear, And bade thee cling to me through every shock; This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier. 3. I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes, Yielding my couch and stretched me on the ground, When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise From thence if thou an early grave hadst found. 4. The earthquake came, and rocked the quivering wall, And men and nature reeled as if with wine. Whom did I seek around the tottering hall? For thee. Whose safety first provide for? Thine. 5. And when convulsive throes denied my breath The faintest utterance to my fading thought, To thee--to thee--e'en in the gasp of death My spirit turned, oh! oftener than it ought. 6. Thus much and more; and yet thou lov'st me not, And never wilt! Love dwells not in our will. Nor can I blame thee, though it be my lot To strongly, wrongly, vainly love thee still.[132] [First published, _Murray's Magazine_, February, 1887, vol. i. pp. 145, 146.] FOOTNOTES: [132] ["The last he ever wrote. From a rough copy found amongst his papers at the back of the 'Song of Suli.' Copied November, 1824.--John C. Hobhouse." "A note, attached to the verses by Lord Byron, states they were addressed to no one in particular, and were a mere poetical Scherzo. --J.C.H."] LAST WORDS ON GREECE. WHAT are to me those honours or renown Past or to come, a new-born people's cry? Albeit for such I could despise a crown Of aught save laurel, or for such could die. I am a fool of passion, and a frown Of thine to me is as an adder's eye. To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high; Such is this maddening fascination grown, So strong thy magic or so weak am I.