7. I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall sooth; Let her bring from the chamber her many-toned lyre, And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 8. Remember the moment when Previsa fell, (32) The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conqueror's yell; The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spar ed. 9. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the Vi zier: Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw." 10. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, Let the yellow-hair'd* Giaourst view his horsetail with dread; When his Delhis§ came dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! * Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. + Infidel. 11. Selictar!* unsheath then our chief's scimitar : Tambourgi! thy 'larum gives promise of war. Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! LXXIII. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! (33) · Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, And long accustom❜d bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopyla's sepulchral straitOh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? LXXIV. Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow (34) Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmann'd. LXXV. In all save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew • Sword-bearer. With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage: For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. LXXVI. Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not [blow? Who would be free themselves must strike the By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; And the Serai's impenetrable tower Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; (35) Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest The (36) prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth-ere lenten days begin, To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, LXXIX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine, song, As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, 'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. LXXXI. Glanced many a light caique along the foam, While many a languid eye and thrilling hand These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill! • LXXXII. But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, Even through the closest searment half be tray'd? To such the gentle murmurs of the main Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain : To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! LXXXIII. This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, : Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most; Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! LXXXIV. When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, When Athens' children are with hearts endued, |