Part 25 (1/2)
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 ht still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not dee sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And shi+ps, 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 bosoenerate into hands like h link'd a a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's sha, 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 rerant 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 co who are duh 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-- Hoers 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 ave-- Think ye he h the boith Samian wine!
We will not think of the 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!
Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind!
Such chains as his were sure to bind
Fill high the boith Saa's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, soht own
Trust not for freedo 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 shi+eld, however broad