7
Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Tho' link'd among a fetter'd 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.
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd?
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 Thermopyle!
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 hoards,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
⟨Hark⟩! rising to the ignoble call-
⟨How⟩ answers each bold baechanal!
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?
