The Flood of Thessaly The Girl of Provence, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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A WAR SONG. |
 | The Flood of Thessaly |  |
243
A WAR SONG.
Are the white snows which crown thy hills untrodden,
Are thy sons valiant still,—thy daughters pure,
Ceraunia?—or hath War, which makes the world
Blush in its blood, stained all thy hills and valleys?
Awake! The Turk is coming:—from his den
Where he once slept, lustful, intemperate,
He comes mad as the sea, and blind with hate.
Awake! Bare all your weapons till their light
Dazzles the sky, now sick with coming woe.
Awake! The Turk is on your heart. Awake!—
Are thy sons valiant still,—thy daughters pure,
Ceraunia?—or hath War, which makes the world
Blush in its blood, stained all thy hills and valleys?
Awake! The Turk is coming:—from his den
Where he once slept, lustful, intemperate,
He comes mad as the sea, and blind with hate.
Awake! Bare all your weapons till their light
Dazzles the sky, now sick with coming woe.
Awake! The Turk is on your heart. Awake!—
Awake! 'tis the terror of war;
The Crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high like the perilous star
Of the battle. Before and behind,
Wherever it glitters, it darts
Bright death into tyrannous hearts.
The Crescent is tossed on the wind;
But our flag flies on high like the perilous star
Of the battle. Before and behind,
Wherever it glitters, it darts
Bright death into tyrannous hearts.
244
Who are they that now bid us be slaves?
They are foes to the good and the free:
Go bid 'em first fetter the might of the waves;
The Sea may be conquered,—but we
Have spirits untameable still,
And the strength to be free,—and the will.
They are foes to the good and the free:
Go bid 'em first fetter the might of the waves;
The Sea may be conquered,—but we
Have spirits untameable still,
And the strength to be free,—and the will.
The Helots are come: In their eyes
Proud hate and fierce massacre burn,
They hate us,—but shall they despise?
They are come;—shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone.
Proud hate and fierce massacre burn,
They hate us,—but shall they despise?
They are come;—shall they ever return?
O God of the Greeks! from thy throne
Look down, and we'll conquer alone.
The world has deserted our need:
The eagle is prey to the hound;—
It may be; but first we will battle and bleed,
And when we have crimsoned the ground,
We'll shout at the slaves of the earth,
And die,—'tis the chance of our birth.
The eagle is prey to the hound;—
It may be; but first we will battle and bleed,
And when we have crimsoned the ground,
We'll shout at the slaves of the earth,
And die,—'tis the chance of our birth.
245
Our fathers,—each man was a god,
His will was a law, and the sound
Of his voice like a spirit's was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers 'round:
From the gates of the West to the Sun
He bade, and his bidding was done.
His will was a law, and the sound
Of his voice like a spirit's was worshipped: he trod,
And thousands fell worshippers 'round:
From the gates of the West to the Sun
He bade, and his bidding was done.
And We—shall we die in our chains,
Who once were as free as the wind?
Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?—
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul.
Who once were as free as the wind?
Who is it that threatens,—who is it arraigns?
Are they princes of Europe or Ind?
Are they kings to the uttermost pole?—
They are dogs, with a taint on their soul.
Away!—Though our glory has fled,
For a time, and Thermopylæ's past;
Let us write a new name in the blood of our dead,
And again be as free as the blast.
The lion, he reigns as of yore:
Shall the Greek be a slave?—and no more?
For a time, and Thermopylæ's past;
Let us write a new name in the blood of our dead,
And again be as free as the blast.
The lion, he reigns as of yore:
Shall the Greek be a slave?—and no more?
246
Away! for the fight may be ended
Before you arrive at your fame.
Your fathers the land and their dwellings defended,
And left them to you—with a name,
Oh! keep it: it sounds like a charm:
It will guard you from terror, from harm.
Before you arrive at your fame.
Your fathers the land and their dwellings defended,
And left them to you—with a name,
Oh! keep it: it sounds like a charm:
It will guard you from terror, from harm.
For our life,—it is nothing,—a span:
'Tis the body, and Fame is the heart.
Is there one who rejects the bright lot of a man?
Let him be the last to depart:
Let him die on his pillow, a slave,—
For us, We have conquered the grave.
'Tis the body, and Fame is the heart.
Is there one who rejects the bright lot of a man?
Let him be the last to depart:
Let him die on his pillow, a slave,—
For us, We have conquered the grave.
| The Flood of Thessaly | |