 | Poems |  |
THE SPARTAN MOTHER AND HER SON.
Mother.My son, let virtue animate thy breast;
Fly to the battle—spurn inglorious rest!
Take up the spear and lance—with ardour go,
March proudly forward to repel the foe!
Let all the spirit of thy noble sire,
With rising energy thy soul inspire!
Thy bleeding country calls thee to the fight,
And duty prompts thee to defend the right.
Fly swiftly, Isadas, for glory says,
“Why dost thou waste in peace thy slothful days?”
Son.
I go my mother, for the deathless crown
Which fires the youthful hero to renown!
And if thy soldier shall return to thee,
And bring the laurel-wreath of victory,
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The dearest pleasure of my glowing heart.
And should I fall—oh! be my glorious grave
Crown'd with the patriot-honours of the brave.
Think that I died in virtue's sacred cause;
Think that I died to win her bright applause.
Mother.
My noble Isadas, to me what pride,
Wert thou to die—as thy brave father died!
Go, young enthusiast, to the battle go,
Repel with native zeal the daring foe.
Oh! that I were a bird, with thee I'd fly,
And search the ranks among with piercing eye,
For thee my son: thy actions brave I'd mark,
And grave them in my breast.—But hark! oh, hark!
The martial trumpet sounds to war's alarms;
Farewel! my hero, haste thee from my arms.
Son.
Adieu! my mother, if with glory crown'd
Home I return not, scarr'd with many a wound,
I'll bravely fall in battle's rushing tide;
Conquer or die—“as my brave father died!”
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