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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 dayAnd 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 linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,
E’en as I sing, suffuse my 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 father's bled ! Earth! render back from out thy breast,
A remnant of our Spartan dead ; And of three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ !
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 callHow 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 gaveThink 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
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; That tyrant was Miltiades !
O! that the present hour would lend
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 hopes 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 shadeI see their glorious black eyes shine;
But, gazing on each glowing maidMy 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
There, swan-like, let me sing and die;
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
In her ear he whispers gaily
“ If my heart by signs can tell,
And I think thou lov'st me well.”
“ There is none I love like thee."
And a village maiden she.
Presses his without reproof;
And they leave her father's roof.
Little can I give my wife,
And I love thee more than life.”
They by parks and lodges going,
See the lordly castles stand ! Summer woods about them blowing,
Make a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses,
Says to her that loves him well, “ Let us see these handsome houses,
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.” So she goes by him attended,
Hears him lovingly converse, Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers; Parks with oak and chesnut shady,
Parks and ordered gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer,
Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, [days.
Where they twain would spend their O but she will love him truly !
He shall have a cheerful home; She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come. Thus her heart rejoices greatly,