The Poems of J. J. Callanan A New Edition, with Biographical Introduction and Notes |
 |
RESTORATION
OF
THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. |
 |
|
|
|
|
 | The Poems of J. J. Callanan |  |
36
RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS.
Raise, Athens, raise thy loftiest tone,
Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown,
Vengeance hung darkly on its wing,
It burst in ruin;—Athens, ring
Thy loudest peal of triumphing;
Persia is fallen: in smouldering heaps,
Her grand, her stately City sleeps;
Above her towers exulting high
Susa has heard the victor's cry,
And Ecbatana, nurse of pride,
Tells where her best, her bravest died.
Persia is sad,—her virgin's sighs
Thro' all her thousand states arise.
Along Arbela's purple plain
Shrieks the wild wail above the slain;
Long, long shall Persia curse the day,
When at the voice of despot sway,
Her millions marched o'er Helle's wave,
To chain—vain boast—the free, the brave.
Raise, Athens, raise thy triumph song!
Yet louder yet, the peal prolong!
Aveng'd at length our slaughter'd sires;
Aveng'd the waste of Persian fires,
And these dear relics of the brave,
Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave,
The spoils of Persia's haughty King
Again are thine—ring, Athens, ring!
Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown,
Vengeance hung darkly on its wing,
It burst in ruin;—Athens, ring
Thy loudest peal of triumphing;
Persia is fallen: in smouldering heaps,
Her grand, her stately City sleeps;
Above her towers exulting high
Susa has heard the victor's cry,
And Ecbatana, nurse of pride,
Tells where her best, her bravest died.
Persia is sad,—her virgin's sighs
Thro' all her thousand states arise.
Along Arbela's purple plain
Shrieks the wild wail above the slain;
Long, long shall Persia curse the day,
When at the voice of despot sway,
Her millions marched o'er Helle's wave,
To chain—vain boast—the free, the brave.
37
Yet louder yet, the peal prolong!
Aveng'd at length our slaughter'd sires;
Aveng'd the waste of Persian fires,
And these dear relics of the brave,
Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave,
The spoils of Persia's haughty King
Again are thine—ring, Athens, ring!
Oh! Liberty, delightful name,
The land that once hath felt thy flame,
That lov'd thy light, but wept its clouding,
Oh! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding?
But if to cheer that night of sorrow
Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow,
That on her tears and on her woes,
Sheds one soft beam of sweet repose,
Oh! who can tell her bright revealing,
Her deep—her holy thrills of feeling.
The land that once hath felt thy flame,
That lov'd thy light, but wept its clouding,
Oh! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding?
But if to cheer that night of sorrow
Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow,
That on her tears and on her woes,
Sheds one soft beam of sweet repose,
Oh! who can tell her bright revealing,
Her deep—her holy thrills of feeling.
So Athens felt, as fix'd her gaze,
On her proud wealth of better days;
'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame,
Nor vase that told its artist's fame,
Nor veils high wrought with skill divine,
That graced the old Minerva's shrine,
Nor marble bust where vigour breath'd,
And beauty's living ringlets wreath'd.
Not these could wake that joyous tone,
Those transports long unfelt—unknown—
'Twas memory's vision robed in light,
That rush'd upon her raptured sight,
Warm from the fields where freedom strove,
Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove,
This bless'd her then, if that could be—
If aught is blest that is not free.
On her proud wealth of better days;
'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame,
Nor vase that told its artist's fame,
Nor veils high wrought with skill divine,
That graced the old Minerva's shrine,
Nor marble bust where vigour breath'd,
And beauty's living ringlets wreath'd.
Not these could wake that joyous tone,
Those transports long unfelt—unknown—
38
That rush'd upon her raptured sight,
Warm from the fields where freedom strove,
Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove,
This bless'd her then, if that could be—
If aught is blest that is not free.
But did no voice exulting raise
To that high Chief the song of praise,
And did no peal of triumph ring,
For Macedon's victorious King,
Who from the foe those spoils had won;
Was there no shout for Philip's son?
No—Monarch—no—what is thy name,
What is thine high career of fame,
From its first field of youthful pride
Where Valour failed and Freedom died,
Onward by mad ambition fired
'Till Greece beneath its march expired?
Let the base herd to whom thy gold
Is dearer than the rights they sold,
In secret, to their Lord and King
That foul unholy incense fling;
But let no slave exalt his voice
Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice:
Oh breathe not now her tyrant's name
Oh wake not yet Athenæ's shame!
Would that the hour when Xerxes' ire
Wrapt fair Athenæ's walls in fire,
All, all had perished in the blaze
And that had been her last of days!
Gone down in that bright shroud of glory
The loveliest wreck in after story;
Or when her children forced to roam,
Freedom their stars—the waves their home,
Near Salamis' immortal isle
Would they had slept in victory's smile;
Or Cheronea's fatal day
While fronting Slavery's dark array,
Had seen them bravely, nobly die,
Bosom on gushing bosom lie,
Piling fair freedom's breast-work high,
Ere one Athenian should remain
To languish life in captive chain,
Or basely wield a freeman's sword
Beneath a Macedonian lord!
Such, then, was Greece, tho' conquer'd, chain'd,
Some pride, some virtue, yet remained;
And as the sun when down he glides
Slowly behind the mountains' sides,
Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill,
His own bright image burning still,
Thus freedom's lingering flushes shone
O'er Greece,—tho' freedom's self was gone.
To that high Chief the song of praise,
And did no peal of triumph ring,
For Macedon's victorious King,
Who from the foe those spoils had won;
Was there no shout for Philip's son?
No—Monarch—no—what is thy name,
What is thine high career of fame,
From its first field of youthful pride
Where Valour failed and Freedom died,
Onward by mad ambition fired
'Till Greece beneath its march expired?
Let the base herd to whom thy gold
Is dearer than the rights they sold,
In secret, to their Lord and King
That foul unholy incense fling;
But let no slave exalt his voice
Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice:
Oh breathe not now her tyrant's name
Oh wake not yet Athenæ's shame!
Would that the hour when Xerxes' ire
Wrapt fair Athenæ's walls in fire,
39
And that had been her last of days!
Gone down in that bright shroud of glory
The loveliest wreck in after story;
Or when her children forced to roam,
Freedom their stars—the waves their home,
Near Salamis' immortal isle
Would they had slept in victory's smile;
Or Cheronea's fatal day
While fronting Slavery's dark array,
Had seen them bravely, nobly die,
Bosom on gushing bosom lie,
Piling fair freedom's breast-work high,
Ere one Athenian should remain
To languish life in captive chain,
Or basely wield a freeman's sword
Beneath a Macedonian lord!
Such, then, was Greece, tho' conquer'd, chain'd,
Some pride, some virtue, yet remained;
And as the sun when down he glides
Slowly behind the mountains' sides,
Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill,
His own bright image burning still,
Thus freedom's lingering flushes shone
O'er Greece,—tho' freedom's self was gone.
Such, then, was Greece! how fallen, how low,
Yet great even then, what is she now?
Who can her many woes deplore,
Who shall her freedom's spoils restore,
Darkly above her slavery's night
The crescent sheds its lurid light;
Upon her breaks no cheering ray,
No beam of freedom's lovely day;
But there—deep shrouded in her doom,
There now is Greece—a living tomb.
Look at her sons and seek in vain,
The indignant brow, the high disdain,
With which the proud soul drags her chain:
The living spark of latent fire
That smoulders on, but can't expire,
That bright beneath the lowering lashes
Will burst at times in angry flashes,
Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking,
To be but mightier in its waking.
Spirits of those whose ashes sleep
For freedom's cause in glory's bed!
Oh do you sometimes come and weep
That, that is lost for which ye bled,
That e'er barbarian flag should float
O'er your own home, in victory's pride,
That e'er should ring barbarian shout
Where Wisdom taught and Valour died.
Oh for that Minstrel's soul of fire
That breath'd, and Sparta's arm was strong!
Oh for some master of the lyre
To wake again that kindling song!
And if sweet land aught lives of thee,
What Hellas was she yet may be,
Freedom, like her to Orpheus given,
May visit yet her home—her heaven.
Yet great even then, what is she now?
40
Who shall her freedom's spoils restore,
Darkly above her slavery's night
The crescent sheds its lurid light;
Upon her breaks no cheering ray,
No beam of freedom's lovely day;
But there—deep shrouded in her doom,
There now is Greece—a living tomb.
Look at her sons and seek in vain,
The indignant brow, the high disdain,
With which the proud soul drags her chain:
The living spark of latent fire
That smoulders on, but can't expire,
That bright beneath the lowering lashes
Will burst at times in angry flashes,
Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking,
To be but mightier in its waking.
Spirits of those whose ashes sleep
For freedom's cause in glory's bed!
Oh do you sometimes come and weep
That, that is lost for which ye bled,
That e'er barbarian flag should float
O'er your own home, in victory's pride,
That e'er should ring barbarian shout
Where Wisdom taught and Valour died.
Oh for that Minstrel's soul of fire
That breath'd, and Sparta's arm was strong!
Oh for some master of the lyre
To wake again that kindling song!
41
What Hellas was she yet may be,
Freedom, like her to Orpheus given,
May visit yet her home—her heaven.
| The Poems of J. J. Callanan | |