The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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THE
GREEK TO HIS SWORD.
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 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
77
THE GREEK TO HIS SWORD.
(FROM THE ROMAIC.)
Now forth I draw thee, glittering blade,
Thy scabbard thus I cast away;
And we shall pass on undismay'd,
Though foes should thicken, like a shade
Around our path, on battle-day!
Thy scabbard thus I cast away;
And we shall pass on undismay'd,
Though foes should thicken, like a shade
Around our path, on battle-day!
Too long in scabbard hast thou lain
Unused, amid Oppression's gloom;
When Thraldom round us wove her chain—
When suffering Mercy pled in vain;
And Hope was none—save in the tomb!
Unused, amid Oppression's gloom;
When Thraldom round us wove her chain—
When suffering Mercy pled in vain;
And Hope was none—save in the tomb!
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Now forth, my sword! oh, better far
To fight, to fall, in Freedom's cause,
Than crouch before Oppression's car,
And, sickening at the thought of war,
With trembling brook a tyrant's laws.
To fight, to fall, in Freedom's cause,
Than crouch before Oppression's car,
And, sickening at the thought of war,
With trembling brook a tyrant's laws.
Too long beneath our native skies
Hath Tyranny her flag unroll'd;
“Forth, forth!” the voice of Nature cries,
“And o'er the necks of foemen rise,
“As did your patriot sires of old!”
Hath Tyranny her flag unroll'd;
“Forth, forth!” the voice of Nature cries,
“And o'er the necks of foemen rise,
“As did your patriot sires of old!”
The warrior's hand hath never toil'd
In nobler cause than ours before;
Nor shall our patriots' hopes be foil'd,
For prosperous Fate hath ever smiled
On such as dared themselves restore.
In nobler cause than ours before;
Nor shall our patriots' hopes be foil'd,
For prosperous Fate hath ever smiled
On such as dared themselves restore.
'Tis not in foreign hearts and hands,
To plead our cause and fight our fields;
Our hope is in our native brands;
'Tis Duty's iron voice commands,
And cursed be every son that yields!
To plead our cause and fight our fields;
Our hope is in our native brands;
'Tis Duty's iron voice commands,
And cursed be every son that yields!
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Shades of the Helots! round us rise,
Point out our steps in glory's path!
Point out our islands—seas—and skies!
Point out our Greece, and bid us rise
Above the abject fear of death!
Point out our steps in glory's path!
Point out our islands—seas—and skies!
Point out our Greece, and bid us rise
Above the abject fear of death!
There is a voice which cheers us on—
Life dragg'd in chains is worthless dross;
Say, shall we turn from Danger's frown?—
No! with the Turkish crescent down,
Exalt on high the blessed cross!
Life dragg'd in chains is worthless dross;
Say, shall we turn from Danger's frown?—
No! with the Turkish crescent down,
Exalt on high the blessed cross!
On—on to danger—let us on;
And oh! my country, if we be
By Tyranny's vaunting hosts o'erthrown,
Yet honour falls to us alone,
Who, spurning fetters, dared be free!
And oh! my country, if we be
By Tyranny's vaunting hosts o'erthrown,
Yet honour falls to us alone,
Who, spurning fetters, dared be free!
Too long hath storm, and tempest-cloud,
O'ershadow'd earth, and veil'd our skies;
Now hill calls out to hill aloud—
“Of Darkness burst the envious shroud,
And let the sun of Hope arise!”
O'ershadow'd earth, and veil'd our skies;
Now hill calls out to hill aloud—
“Of Darkness burst the envious shroud,
And let the sun of Hope arise!”
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The spirits on the mountain hear
The spirits answering from the glen;
From ruin'd walls and sepulchre,
From heaven and earth a voice we hear,—
“Awake! arise! once more be men!”
The spirits answering from the glen;
From ruin'd walls and sepulchre,
From heaven and earth a voice we hear,—
“Awake! arise! once more be men!”
On—on, my true and trusty brand;
To fields and foemen let us on;
And let us from our native land
Sweep, one by one, each turban'd band,
Who pluck the vine-trees not their own!
To fields and foemen let us on;
And let us from our native land
Sweep, one by one, each turban'd band,
Who pluck the vine-trees not their own!
On—on, my blade, nor let us turn,
Though blood rain round in purple showers;
May every heart for glory burn,
At chains and flight alike we spurn;—
Let Freedom or the Grave be ours!
Though blood rain round in purple showers;
May every heart for glory burn,
At chains and flight alike we spurn;—
Let Freedom or the Grave be ours!
| The Legend of Genevieve | |