THE EAST. Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the SunCan he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell, Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. LYRIC VERSES The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece! The Scian and the Teian muse, The mountains look on Marathon- I dreamt that Greece might still be free; A king sate 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 linked among a fettered race, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing suffuse my face; 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 Thermopyla! What, silent still? and silent all? In vain—in vain: strike other chords; And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, The nobler and the manlier one! Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! 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! Oh! 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! 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- Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Place me on Sunium's marbled steepWhere 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! |