LORD BYRON
He counted them at break of day And when the sun set, where were they?
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?
'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though 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 blest ^ Must we but blubh ? 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 Thermopylae'
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 hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine!
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