 | Poems |  |
43
GREECE.
Thy heavens are now thy crown,
Bright awful land;
Still, though defaced, borne down,
Lovely and grand.
Bright awful land;
Still, though defaced, borne down,
Lovely and grand.
Fountain and haunted shrine
Yet make thee fair;
Thy purple air divine
Still, still is there.
Yet make thee fair;
Thy purple air divine
Still, still is there.
Citron flowers, pure and sweet,
Load thy soft breeze;
Overhead myrtles meet,
And fruit-hung trees.
Load thy soft breeze;
Overhead myrtles meet,
And fruit-hung trees.
44
But slowly, humbly tread!
Mouldering beneath,
Rest the majestic dead!
Greece mourned their death.
Mouldering beneath,
Rest the majestic dead!
Greece mourned their death.
Leaders of host and fleet,
Lords of wide earth,
Who held on thrones their seat—
Greece hailed their birth!
Lords of wide earth,
Who held on thrones their seat—
Greece hailed their birth!
Here rests the kingly bard,
With his crushed lyre,
Whose brows enwreathed and starred,
Once bore Heaven's fire.
With his crushed lyre,
Whose brows enwreathed and starred,
Once bore Heaven's fire.
Still live the Gods of Song,
The inspired! renowned!—
That pale, immortal throng
O'erpass death's bound.
The inspired! renowned!—
That pale, immortal throng
O'erpass death's bound.
45
The sceptered leader's tomb
A glory wears,
Brightening eve's gorgeous gloom,
But not like their's!
A glory wears,
Brightening eve's gorgeous gloom,
But not like their's!
Their's sheds a spirit round,
Dove-like, to brood
O'er depths of shade and sound—
Flowered depths of wood!
Dove-like, to brood
O'er depths of shade and sound—
Flowered depths of wood!
They in full might passed on,
Through wrath, through wrong,
Till every palm was won,—
Death! Death! thou'rt strong!
Through wrath, through wrong,
Till every palm was won,—
Death! Death! thou'rt strong!
Strong! since thou'st quenched and crushed
Those spirits sublime,
That ever onward rushed
Through space and time.
Those spirits sublime,
That ever onward rushed
Through space and time.
46
Still-still their boundless sway
Is felt and owned;
For Death's o'erwhelming day
Fame hath atoned.
Is felt and owned;
For Death's o'erwhelming day
Fame hath atoned.
But thou! bright awful land,
Art thou not free?
Can Slavery's Gordian band
Crush thine and thee?
Art thou not free?
Can Slavery's Gordian band
Crush thine and thee?
Can thy sons bend and cower,
Clasping the chain?
Have ye no voice of power,
Fountain and fane?
Clasping the chain?
Have ye no voice of power,
Fountain and fane?
Hast thou no language—thou!
Blue billowy main,
That flashed round Freedom's prow
In Victory's train?
Blue billowy main,
That flashed round Freedom's prow
In Victory's train?
47
Have ye, O mountains old!
No heaven-lent thunder,
To burst each fetter-fold,
Each bond, asunder?
No heaven-lent thunder,
To burst each fetter-fold,
Each bond, asunder?
And thou—pale glorious dust!
Thou'st called in vain:
Still the sword keeps its rust—
The slave, his chain!
Thou'st called in vain:
Still the sword keeps its rust—
The slave, his chain!
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