Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime
Too proudly, ye oppressors!-Spain was free;
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of
Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause!
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,
Or shape of death, to shroud them from ap-
plause.-

No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame.
Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal
flame.

Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's treeIt has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free:

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves

May be wash'd out in blood from our forefather's graves.

Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our
veins,

That, living, we shall be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe

not!

Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.

Earth may hide-waves engulf-fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us:

If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,

And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge!-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story,

Or brighten your lives with its glory.

Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair?

Accursed may his memory blacken

If a coward there be that would slacken

Till we've trampled the turban and shown our. selves worth

Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.

Strike home, and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her ilses of the Ocean;

Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns shall with jubilee

ring,

And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring:

Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness,

That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms,

Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms,

When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens
Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN.
My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untann'd,
Which on my arm I buckle:

With these I plow, I reap, I sow,

With these I make the sweet vintage flow,
And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield,
Nor joy to draw the sword:

Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones,
To call me King and Lord.

FRAGMENT.

FROM THE GREEK OF ALCMAN.

THE mountain summits sleep:-glens, cliffs, and

caves,

Are silent-all the black earth's reptile broodThe bees-the wild beasts of the mountain wood:

In depths beneath the dark-red ocean's waves Its monsters rest, whilst wrapt in bower and

spray

Each bird is hush'd that stretch'd its pinions to the day.

MARTIAL ELEGY.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTEUS.

How glorious fall the valiant, sword in nant In front of battle for their native land!

But oh! what ills await the wretch that yields,
A recreant outcast from his country's fields!
The mother whom he loves shall quit her home,
An aged father at his side shall roam;
His little ones shall weeping with him go,
And a young wife participate his woe;
While scorn'd and scowl'd upon by every face,
They pine for food, and beg from place to place.

Stain of his breed! dishonouring manhood's form,

All ills shall cleave to him:-Affliction's storm Shall blind him wandering in the vale of years, Till, lost to all but ignominious fears,

He shall not blush to leave a recreant's name, And children, like himself, inured to shame.

But we will combat for our father's land, And we will drain the life-blood where we stand To save our children:-fight ye side by side, And serried close, ye men of youthful pride, Disdaining fear, and deeming light the cost Of life itself in glorious battle lost.

Leave not our sires to stem th' unequal fight, Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might;

Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast Permit the man of age (a sight unbless'd)