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 farther west Than your sires' "Islands of the blest."
The mountains look on Marathon- And Marathon looks on the sea; 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 within a fetter'd race; To feel at least a patriot's shame, E'en 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 bless'd? 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 Thermopyla!
What! silent still,-and silent all! Ah! no-the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 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 noblier 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 songs divine :
He served but served Polycrates- A tyrant-but our masters then Were still at least our countrymen.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rocks 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 that 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 Sunium'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!
EXTRACTED FROM A POEM OF THE SAME TITLE.
A Roman soldier, for some daring deed,
That trespassed on the laws, in dungeon low Chained down. His was a noble spirit, rough, But generous, and brave, and kind. He had a son, 'twas a rosy boy,
A little faithful copy of his sire
In face and gesture. 'In her pangs she died That gave him birth; and ever since the child Had been his father's solace and his care.
The father shared and heightened. But at length The rigorous law had grasped him, and condemned To fetters and to darkness.
He felt in all its bitterness:-the walls
Of his deep dungeon answered many a sigh
And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and touched His jailor with compassion;-and the boy,
Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled
His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence that in every wound Dropt healing. But in this terrific hour He was a poisoned arrow in the breast Where he had been a cure.
Of that first day of darkness and amaze, He came. The iron door was closed-for them. Never to open more! The day, the night, Dragged slowly by; nor did they know the fate Impending o'er the city. Well they heard The pent up thunders in the earth beneath, And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot, at length, and thick; but in his straw The boy was sleeping: and the father hoped The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake From his sound rest the unfearing child, nor tell The dangers of their state. On his low couch
The fettered soldier sunk-and with deep awe Listened the fearful sounds:-with upturned eye To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then strove To calm himself, and lose in sleep a while His useless terrors. But he could not sleep :- His body burned with feverish heat;-his chains Clanked loud, although he moved not: deep in earth Groaned unimaginable thunders :-sounds, Fearful and ominous, arose and died,
Like the sad moanings of November's wind In the blank midnight. Deepest horror chilled His blood that burned before;-cold clammy sweats Came o'er him :-then anon a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk And shivered as in fear :-now upright leaped,
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound, And longed to cope with death.
A troubled dreamy sleep. Never to waken more! But terrible his agony.
He slept at last Well—had he slept His hours are few,
Burst forth the lightnings glanced :—the air Shook with the thunders. They awoke; they sprung Amazed upon their feet. The dungeon glowed
A moment as in sunshine-and was dark :- Again a flood of white flame fills the cell; Dying away upon the dazzled eye
In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.
And blackest darkness. With intensest awe The soldier's frame was filled; and many a thought Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind, As underneath he felt the fevered earth Jarring and lifting and the massive walls
Heard harshly grate and strain: yet knew he not, While evils undefined and yet to come
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given. Where, man of woe! Where, wretched father! is thy boy? Thou callest His name in vain :-he cannot answer thee.
Loudly the father called upon his child :— No voice replied. Trembling and anxiously
He searched their couch of straw: with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent, Groped darkling on the earth :- -no child was there. Again he called:-again at farthest stretch Of his accursed fetters-till the blood Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes Fire flashed—he strained with arm extended far, And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch Though but his idol's garment. Useless toil, Yet still renewed:-still round and round he goes, And strains and snatches-and with dreadful cries Calls on his boy. Mad frenzy fires him now; He plants against the wall his feet;-his chain Grasps;-tugs with giant strength, to force away The deep-driven staple ;—yells and shrieks with rage. And, like a desert lion in the snare,
Raging to break his toils-to and fro bounds. But see! the ground is opening;—a blue light Mounts, gently waving-noiseless:—thin and cold It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame; But by its lustre, on the earth outstretched, Behold the lifeless child!—his dress is singed, And over his serene face a dark line Points out the lightning's track.
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