Sir Alan Donald worked as a diplomat in China three times– in the 1950s, 60s and 80s. Each time there was a similar pattern, starting with the hopes of greater openness and freedom and ending with severe crackdowns. These were the disaster of the Great Leap Forward, the madness of the Cultural Revolution and in the 1980s, when he was there as Ambassador, the Tiananmen Square massacre. He was also closely involved with the negotiations to hand back the British Colony of Hong Kong to China in 1997. He witnessed it all and recounts his experiences in this memoir.
Listen to Graham Donald reading “The Isles of Greece” here
The Isles of Greece by Lord Byron
Lord Byron wrote “The Isles of Greece” in 1819 as a call for Greek independence.
Greece at that time was part of the Ottoman Empire and Byron both championed, financed and participated with the Greeks in their war against the Turks.
He died in Messolongi in 1824 while still actively promoting the revolution
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 your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest’.
The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream’d that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians’ grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?
’Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though link’d among a fetter’d race, To feel at least a patriot’s shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.
Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must we but blush?—Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae!
What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, And answer, ‘Let one living head, But one, arise,—we come, we come!’ ’Tis but the living who are dumb.
In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine: Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon’s song divine: He served—but served Polycrates— A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! O that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli’s rock, and Parga’s shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks— They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunion’s marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
The poem “The Jazz of this Hotel” by Vatchel Lindsay read by Graham Donald. You can listen here
The Jazz of this Hotel by Vatchel Lindsay
The poem contrasts the loud, “hard and cold” artificiality of city jazz with the “slower,” natural rhythms of the sea, thunder, wind, and rural life, lamenting the loss of simpler, authentic experiences for the mechanical energy of modern urban life, with lines emphasizing nature’s deep tones (tom-toms, violin, cello) against the hotel’s jarring, unrooted sound.
The poet illuminates the conflict between the organic, timeless rhythms of nature and the frantic, artificial energy of urban life. In the concluding paradox, the jazz sounds “hot” but feels emotionally empty, harsh, and isolating compared to the warmth of nature and simple life.
