1
The Isles of
Greece, the
Isles of Greece !
Where burning
Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of
War and Peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phœbus sprung !
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their Sun, is set.
2
The Scian and
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."
3
The mountains look on
Marathon ---
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
4
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?
5
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?
6
'T is 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;
For what is left the poet here?
For
Greeks a blush --- for Greece a tear.
7
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 Thermopylæ !
8
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 ! "
'T is but the living who are dumb.
9
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 call ---
How answers each bold
Bacchanal !
10
You have the
Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The noblier and manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave ---
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
11
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
We will not think of themes like these !
It made
Anacreon's song divine:
He served --- but served
Polycrates ---
A
Tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
12
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.
13
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
On
Suli's rock, and Parga's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, such seed is sown,
The Heracleidan blood might own.
14
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.
15
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
Our virgins dance beneath the shade ---
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
16
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 !
- published: 10 Apr 2012
- views: 905