Press Freedom's land, and with unconscious gaze,
Mutt'ring the pray'r of superstition, pass
The awful temple and the ruin'd tomb?
Shades of th' heroic dead, behold your sons,
Not arm'd for battle, not in glory's school
Contending for the wreath of victory;
Not with the clenched palm and furrow'd brow
Of thought, reasoning with Philosophy,
Or guiding with persuasion's open hand
Passion's wild tumult; but low crouching down
Beneath a master's scourge, and with the sounds
Of friendship on their lips, tainting its bright
And spotless lustre with the mildew'd breath
Of dark deceit and sordid perfidy.
And lo! he comes, the modern son of Greece,
The shame of Athens; mark him how he bears
A look o'eraw'd and moulded to the stamp
Of servitude. The ready smile, the shrug
Submissive, the low cringing bow, which waits
Th' imperious order, and the supple knee,
Proclaim his state degen'rate: pliant still
And crouching for his gain, whether in vest
Of flowing purple, and with orange zone,
And saffron sandal, and a coif of fur,
He apes the Archon's state; or pressing on,
And elbowing the crowd, with slipper'd feet,
And cap of scarlet dye, curl'd locks, and dress
For speed succinct, he ranges the bazar,
And earns the paltry recompense of toil.
Where then shall we the father's genius seek?
Shame to the sons, amidst the song and dance,
And midnight revelry ; these have outliv'd
The bold but transient features, these survive
The glow of fancy and the strength of thought.
The feast is spread, and the recumbent guests,
Inclining o'er their tripods, quaff the wines
Of Zea or of Samos; mirth goes round,
The laugh, the jest, dispel their gloomy thoughts, 245
And yield a momentary happiness.
The strain begins-the mandoline, awak'd
By rudest touch, preludes the measure wild,
Whilst the responsive song, by none refus’d,
Successive passes round th' applauding guests,
Phrosýne's mournful dirge, or thy soft air
O beauteous Haïdee! The tambour beats-
And Athens' daughters, starting at the sound,
In loosely-cinctur'd robes of crimson hue,
With ringlets darkly shadowing their breasts,
Throw back their snowy necks upon the air,*
And wave their rosy-finger'd hands, and lead
The sprightly chorus, or the mazy round
Which Theseus first beheld, when he return'd
Victor from Crete, by Delian virgins twin'd.
Regardless of these sounds of revelry,
Silent and dull, and meas'ring ev'ry step,
With solemn air, the Moslem stalks along;
His look, his gait, his habit, all proclaim
The supercilious despot of the land.
The muslin turban, coil'd around his head
In spiral folds, shades his wan cheek; his brow
Low'rs gloomily upon his half-rais'd eye;
And from his arched nose, and lip, with smile
Contemptuous curl'd, his shaggy beard descends.
The tawdry splendor of his garb declares
His Eastern origin; a silken vest
Of varied colours loosely veils his limbs,
And round each ankle floats; a purple belt
Invests his ample waist, bearing the load
Of pistol and of studded yatagan.o
One hand sustains his pipe, and one adjusts
The yellow robe, which from his shoulders broad
Sweeping in graceful folds, now shows and now
Conceals the manly texture of his form.
'Tis his delight beneath a canopy
Of interwoven vines, upon his mat
To pass the sultry hours, inhaling fumes
Of fragrant leaf, and sipping the dark stream
Of Mocha's berry; he, so occupied,
Recks not of toil, of danger, or of war,
And hears unmov'd how Russia's hardy sons
Launch their red thunders o'er the Danau's wave.
Hence turn your gaze-the low degen'rate race
Claims not another thought; but we will search
The monuments of time; and there peruse
Those forms of genius which in vain we seek
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