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Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow (')
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train,
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ?
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain,
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land;
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain,
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand,
From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, unmann'd.
In all save form alone, how changed ! and who
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye,
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty !
And many dream withal the hour is nigh
That gives them back their fathers' heritage :
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh,
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage,
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournsul page.
Hereditary bondsmen! know yo not
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow?
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no!
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low,
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame.
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe!
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ;
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame.
The city won for Allah from the Giaour,
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest;
And the Serai's impenetrable tower
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest ; (*)
Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest
The prophet's (") tomb of all its pious spoil,
(l) Phylc, which commands n beautiful viow of Athons, has still considorable roo mains : it was scized by Thrasybulus previous to the cxpulsion of tho Thirtv.
(2) When taken by tho Latins, and rolained for sovoral yoars. - Soo GIBBON.
(3) Mocca and Medina wero taken sonic timo ago by tho Wahaboos, a sect rearly increasing.
- May wind their path of blood along the West;
But ne'er will freedom seek this tated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil.
Yet mark their mirth ere lenten days begin,
Thạt penance which their holy rites prepare
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin,
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ;
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear,
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all,
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share,
In motley robe to dance at masking ball,
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.
And whose more rife with merriment than thine,
Oh Stambou!! once the empress of their reign ?
Though turbans, now pollute Sophia's shrine,
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain :
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !)
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng,
All felt the common joy they now must feign,
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song,
As woo'd the eye, and thrill’d the Bosphorus along.
Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore,
Of Music changed, but never ceased her tone,
And timely echo'd back the measured oar,
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan :
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone,
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave,
'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne,
A brighter glance her form reflected gave,
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave
Glanced many a light caique along the foam,
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land,
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home,
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand,
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still :
Oh Love ! young Love! bound in thy rosy band,
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will,
These hours, and only these, redeem Lise's years of ill!
But, midst the throng in merry masquerade,
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain,
Even through the closest searment half betray'd ?
To such the gentle murmurs of the main
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ;
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain :
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud,
And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud!
This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece,
Ir Greece one true-born patriot still can boast :
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace,
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost,
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost,
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword :
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most ;
Their birth, their blood, and that sublirne record
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde !
When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood,
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again,
When Athens' children are with hearts endued,
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men,
Then may'st thou be restored; but not till then.
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovale,
Recal its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate ?
And yet how lovely in thine age of wo,
Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou !
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, (") !!). On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, tho mow novor is entirely niited, notwithstanding tho intense hout of the summor; bue I never saw it lio on tho plains, even in winter.
Proclaim theo Nature's varied favourite now;
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow,
Commingling slowly with heroic earth,
Broke by the share of every rustic plough :
So perish monuments of mortal birth,
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth;
Save where some solitary column mourns
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; (")
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ;
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave,
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave,
While strangers only not regardless pass,
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh“ Alas!”
Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ;
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ;
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ;
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.
Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground;
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon :
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold
Defies the power which crush'd thy teinples gone :
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
(1) of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed 150 public edifices of Athens. — The modern name is Mount Mendeli
. An immenso cavo, formed by the quarries, still remains, and will till the end of timo.
The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord -
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant Glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word ; (")
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career.
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
The fiery Greek, bis red pursuing spear;
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below;
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear !
Such was the scene what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around.
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ;
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young'
venerate and bards adore, As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that 's kindred cheer the welcome bearth ;
He that is lonely, hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth :
(1) “ Siste Viator - heroa calcas !” was the epitaph on the famous Count Merci ; - what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The principal barıow has recently been opened by Fanvel: few or no relics, as vases, &c. were found by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hundred pounds! Alas! -" Expende-quot libras in duce summo - invenies!" — was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? It could scarcely have sulched less if sold by weight.