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The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;
And men in nations;-all were his !
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 among a fetter'd race,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
Must we but weep o'er days more blest?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled,
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
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 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 gave Think ye he meant them for a slave ?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
We will not think of themes like these!
He served--but served Polycrates-
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!
On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Such as the Doric mothers bore:
Trust not for freedom to the Franks
They have a king 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 shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade I see their glorious black
eyes 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 ?
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse;
Yet in these times he might have done much worse : His strain display'd some feeling-right or wrong;
And feeling, in a poet, is the source
Falling like dew, apon a thought, produces
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages; to what straits old Time reduces Frail man, when paper--even a rag like this, Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.
His station, generation, even his nation,
In chronological commemoration,
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station
And glory long has made the sages smile;
'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind Depending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind:
The present century was growing blind
A little heavy, but no less divine :
Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine;
We're told this great high-priest of all the Nine
Like Sbakspeare's steeling deer, Lord Bacon's bribes;
Like Burns (whom Doctor Currie well describes);
These amiable descriptions from the scribes,
He prated to the world of “ Pantisocracy;"
Season’d his pedlar poems with democracy ;
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy;
The very Botany Bay in moral geography;
Are good manure for their more bare biography.
Than any since the birth-day of typography,