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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,
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 beams 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 crushed thy temples gone:
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

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.
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!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore...

*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—
The wind is blowing off the shore-
I will not live, a cowering slave,

In these polluted islands more.
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,
There is a better home for me.

The wind is blowing off the shore,

And out to sea the streamers fly-
My musick is the dashing roar,

My canopy the stainless sky-
It bends above, so fair a blue
That heaven seems opening to my view.
I will not live, a cowering slave,
Though all the charms of life
Around me, and the land, the wave,

And sky be drawn in tints divine.-
Give lowering skies and rocks to me
If there my spirit can be free.


Sweeter than spicy gales, that blow

From orange groves with wooing breath,
The winds may from these islands flow,-
But, 'tis an atmosphere of death,-
The lotus, which transformed the brave
And haughty to a willing slave.

Softer than Minder's winding stream,

The wave may ripple on this coast,
And brighter than the morning beam,

In golden swell be round it tost-
Give me a rude and stormy shore,
So power can never threat me more.
Brighter than all the tales, they tell

Of Eastern pomp and pageantry,
Our sunset skies in glory swell,

Hung round with glowing tapestry :-
The horrours of a winter storm
Swell brighter o'er a Freeman's form.

The Spring may here with Autumn twine,
And both combined may rule the year,
And fresh-blown flowers and racy wine
In frosted clusters still be near :--
Dearer the wild and snowy hills
Where hale and ruddy Freedom smiles.
Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea,

And Ocean's stormy vastness o'er,
There is a better home for me,

A welcomer and dearer shore :
There hands, and hearts, and souls, are twined,
And free the Man, and free the mind.


Song of the Greeks, 1822.-CAMPBELL.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

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Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree-
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Are stretched in our aid ?—Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:
For we've sworn, by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,
That living, we will be victorious,

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,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves :—
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

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
Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth.
Strike home!-and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean :

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee ring,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

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.
Richmond, September 22, 1803.

- 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
nd now occupied by Richmond: that is, about two
Thelow the head of tide water.
Swel of the slight manner in which the Indians have

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