SONG OF THE GREEKS. AGAIN to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free: The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' 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 stretched in our aid-be the combat our own! Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheath not! If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; 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 ourselves 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 isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring: That were cold and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white-waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens, Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; Rushed into her sire's embrace : Her bright-haired sire, who bade her keep On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-covered isles: More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemmed her crown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, Save when adown the ravaged globe And trampling on her faded form :— The shaft that drives him to his polar field,. Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-covered shield. Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds ; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark-brown Danube roars. Oh, winds of Winter! list ye there To many a deep and dying groan; Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. May spare the victim fallen low; LINES SPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE, ON THE OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 1817. BRITONS! although our task is but to show That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass, This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. |