THE ISLES OF GREECE. BY LORD BYRON.
Reading edition
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace— Where Delos rose and Phœbus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all except their sun, is set.
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 I could not deem myself a slave.
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, Degenerate into hands like mine?
Must we but weep o’er days more blest? Must we but blush? Our father’s 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!
In vain—in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave— Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine! But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine— Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!