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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, unmanned.
In all, save form alone, how changed! and who
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who, but would deem their bosoms burned anew With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! And many dream, withal, the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage; For foreign aid and arms they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page,
Hereditary bondmen! know ye not
Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? By their right arm 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 thy years of shame.
When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood,
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, When Athens' children are with arts endued,
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, Then thou may'st 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 shattered splendour renovate When call 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 ever-green, thy hills of snow
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now. Thy fanes, thy temples, to thy surface bow, Commingling slowly with heroick earth;
Broke with the share of every rustick 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 warriour's half forgotten gravė, 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,
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields.
Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground:
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould!
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold
Long, to the remnants of thy splendour past,
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; Long shall the voyager, with th' fonian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song.
*Of Mount Pentelicus, from which the marble was dug that constructed the publick edifices at Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. In this mountain an immense cave, formed by the quarries, still remains.
The Greek Emigrant's Song.-J. G. PERCIVAL
Now launch the boat upon the wave—
In these polluted islands more.
The wind is blowing off the shore,
And out to sea the streamers fly-
My canopy the stainless sky-
And sky be drawn in tints divine.-
Sweeter than spicy gales, that blow
From orange groves with wooing breath,
Softer than Minder's winding stream,
The wave may ripple on this coast,
In golden swell be round it tost-
Of Eastern pomp and pageantry,
Hung round with glowing tapestry :-
The Spring may here with Autumn twine,
And Ocean's stormy vastness o'er,
A welcomer and dearer shore :
Song of the Greeks, 1822.-CAMPBELL.
AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!
Ah! what though no succour advances,
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree-
And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Are stretched in our aid ?—Be the combat our own!
Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not:
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe Bulsion. Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, lacably And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. that the
Earth may hide-waves ingalph-fire consume us,
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves :—
This day-shall ye blush for its story? Or brighten your lives with its glory?Our women-Oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken,
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens.
Letter from the British Spy, in Virginia.—WIRT.
- I HAVE just returned from an interesting morning's ride. My object was to visit the site of the Indian town, Powhatan; which, you will remember, was the metropolis of the
minions of Pocahuntas' father, and, very probably, the rthplace of that celebrated princess.
The town was built on the river, about two miles below