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[The lines of Lord Byron are printed, on account of the similarity of
some passages in the Greek.]
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
[This Ode obtained the Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge.
A few alterations have been made in it since.]
The Mountains look on Marathon-
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians' grave,
A king sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations :-all were his ! He counted them at break of day
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country ? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now
The heroic bosom beats no more
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among a fetter'd race,
To feel at least a patriot's shame,
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ;
Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd ?
Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
What, silent still ? and silent all ?
Ah! no ;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
And answer, “ Let one living head,
But one arise—we come, we come!”
'Tis but the living who are dumb.