DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.11448#0531
chaf xx.]
THE IONIAN ISLANDS.
217
CHAPTER XX.
the ionian islands.
Hurrah for the Spirit of England !
The bold, the true, the free,
Who stretcheth his hand
With a king's command
All over the circling sea '.
Barry Cornwall.
The same delightful climate, the same serene, unclouded
nights, the fresh, breezy, radiant mornings, and soft, sweet, pen-
sive evenings of the land we had left, followed us over the Adri-
atic Sea.
Long after Missolonghi had past from our view, it haunted our
memories as the last scene of interest in glorious Greece. It is
now become classic ground, as the death-scene of the Poet who
preached, and the Hero who fought for her sacred cause. Byron's
remains have been removed to England, but Botzaris sleeps where
he fell—
" dying, as hearts like his should die,
In the hot clasp of Victory."
There are no words in poetry more pathetic than those which
Byron wrote at Missolonghi, on his last birthday, breathing through
their melody a spirit of utter sadness so mournfully contrasted with
the brilliant and daring genius that inspired them. Even thia
last sad hope was defeated :
" Seek out—less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave ; for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest."
THE IONIAN ISLANDS.
217
CHAPTER XX.
the ionian islands.
Hurrah for the Spirit of England !
The bold, the true, the free,
Who stretcheth his hand
With a king's command
All over the circling sea '.
Barry Cornwall.
The same delightful climate, the same serene, unclouded
nights, the fresh, breezy, radiant mornings, and soft, sweet, pen-
sive evenings of the land we had left, followed us over the Adri-
atic Sea.
Long after Missolonghi had past from our view, it haunted our
memories as the last scene of interest in glorious Greece. It is
now become classic ground, as the death-scene of the Poet who
preached, and the Hero who fought for her sacred cause. Byron's
remains have been removed to England, but Botzaris sleeps where
he fell—
" dying, as hearts like his should die,
In the hot clasp of Victory."
There are no words in poetry more pathetic than those which
Byron wrote at Missolonghi, on his last birthday, breathing through
their melody a spirit of utter sadness so mournfully contrasted with
the brilliant and daring genius that inspired them. Even thia
last sad hope was defeated :
" Seek out—less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave ; for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest."