 | Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems |  |
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MODERN GREECE.
Unmindful of her former fame,
That glorious land had slept,
And Freedom o'er her funeral urn
In silent darkness wept;
Upon the plains where heroes sought,
The haughty Moslem trod—
Her servile sons still cowered beneath
Their stern oppressor's rod.
That glorious land had slept,
And Freedom o'er her funeral urn
In silent darkness wept;
Upon the plains where heroes sought,
The haughty Moslem trod—
Her servile sons still cowered beneath
Their stern oppressor's rod.
A sound rolled like a thunder-peal
From Delphi's haunted cave,
Parnassus sent the echoes back
Above Lepanto's wave;
Amid Dodona's solemn fanes
Rose up that thrilling cry,
And through each dale, renowned in song,
Like a trumpet-blast went by.
From Delphi's haunted cave,
Parnassus sent the echoes back
Above Lepanto's wave;
Amid Dodona's solemn fanes
Rose up that thrilling cry,
And through each dale, renowned in song,
Like a trumpet-blast went by.
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It swelled up like a battle-hymn
From Thessaly's bright rills,
And the stirring echoes died along
The far Etolian hills;
In song, through Tempe's classic vale,
The Peneus bore it on—
Olympus, through his misty robe,
Spoke it in thunder-tone
From Thessaly's bright rills,
And the stirring echoes died along
The far Etolian hills;
In song, through Tempe's classic vale,
The Peneus bore it on—
Olympus, through his misty robe,
Spoke it in thunder-tone
It was the sentence of the dead—
The call of those who died
When Greece was in her palmy days,
Her glory and her pride;
Across the waves of Salamis
Was heard the gathered sound,
Which e'en Miltiades spoke forth
From Marathon's gray mound.
The call of those who died
When Greece was in her palmy days,
Her glory and her pride;
Across the waves of Salamis
Was heard the gathered sound,
Which e'en Miltiades spoke forth
From Marathon's gray mound.
The brave who at Platea fell,
And old Thermopylæ,
Called to their low, degenerate sons,
To strike for Liberty;
Old Homer's spirit lingered still
Upon the Grecian lyre,
And nerved to deeds of high emprise
Each warrior's heart of fire.
And old Thermopylæ,
Called to their low, degenerate sons,
To strike for Liberty;
Old Homer's spirit lingered still
Upon the Grecian lyre,
And nerved to deeds of high emprise
Each warrior's heart of fire.
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They heard the call—that stirring sound
Awoke them from their shame,
They vowed to lift again the sword
For Freedom and for Fame;
They felt the spirit of their sires
Above whose graves they trod,
And the banner of the cross unfurled
Before the shrine of God!
Awoke them from their shame,
They vowed to lift again the sword
For Freedom and for Fame;
They felt the spirit of their sires
Above whose graves they trod,
And the banner of the cross unfurled
Before the shrine of God!
More glorious than Platea's day
When Persia's might was low,
Bozzaris, like a midnight storm,
Burst on the leaguered foe;
And Missolonghi's shattered wall,
Her heaps of ghastly dead,
Proved that the soul of Ancient Greece
Had not forever fled.
When Persia's might was low,
Bozzaris, like a midnight storm,
Burst on the leaguered foe;
And Missolonghi's shattered wall,
Her heaps of ghastly dead,
Proved that the soul of Ancient Greece
Had not forever fled.
With hearts that never feared a foe,
And nerves to battle strung,
From vintage-hill and sunny vale
Her dauntless champions sprung,
Beat back the Moslem's charging hordes
With wild impetuous sweep,
And Freedom soared with eagle-wing
O'er Phyle's rocky steep.
And nerves to battle strung,
From vintage-hill and sunny vale
Her dauntless champions sprung,
Beat back the Moslem's charging hordes
With wild impetuous sweep,
And Freedom soared with eagle-wing
O'er Phyle's rocky steep.
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And from her throne amid the clouds,
Upon the Olympian hill,
She watches o'er her chosen home
With brilliant lustre still—
And at her altars through that land
Is offered many a prayer,
And soft tones of the Dorian reed
Float on the free bright air.
Upon the Olympian hill,
She watches o'er her chosen home
With brilliant lustre still—
And at her altars through that land
Is offered many a prayer,
And soft tones of the Dorian reed
Float on the free bright air.
The ancient spirit has not fled
But brighter still will burn,
Though long the world had mourned above
Her desolated urn;
New bards will rise to rival yet
The Theban song of fire,
And Homer's soul reanimate
The voiceless Grecian lyre.
But brighter still will burn,
Though long the world had mourned above
Her desolated urn;
New bards will rise to rival yet
The Theban song of fire,
And Homer's soul reanimate
The voiceless Grecian lyre.
And from her ruins, Phœnix-like,
Athena yet will rise,
And glory's beacon-fires again
Illume her darkened skies;
Till her free sons, redeemed at last
From slavery's hateful chain,
Will emulate their glorious sires,
And Greece be Greece again!
Athena yet will rise,
And glory's beacon-fires again
Illume her darkened skies;
Till her free sons, redeemed at last
From slavery's hateful chain,
Will emulate their glorious sires,
And Greece be Greece again!
| Ximena ; or the battle of the Sierra Morena, and other poems | |