 | My Sonnets |  |
10
DEMOSTHENES.
Thy wingëd words were rushing winds that toreAnd lashed to stormy fury the hushed sea
Of breathing life beneath thee. Fitfully,
Rending the silence, the tempestuous roar
Of voices, bursting forth, rose wildly o'er
The mighty multitude,—“O still be free,
Ye men of Athens! In Thermopylæ,
Died the three hundred; on the ocean shore
Of Marathon, did your forefathers pour
Their blood, like water, that their sons might be
Chainless; that Greece—that Athens—never more
Might know the foot of the enslaver. See,
Is not yon Salamis? Will ye before
The tyrant crouch?”—Loud bursts the cry, “To war!”
November 21st, 1842.
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