THE VOICE OF SCIO.
A voice from Scio’s isle—
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d,
And earth was hush’d the while—
The souls of nations woke!
Where lies the land whose hills among
That voice of victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?
To sky, and sea, and shore,
Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.
Still by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.
And kings their turf have crown’d!
And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave
Brought garlands there: so rest the brave,
Who thus their bard have found!
A voice from Scio’s isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again;
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where’er our sun may smile!
Let not its tones expire!
Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne’er was given
To mortal song or lyre!
Know ye not whence it comes?
—From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!
’Tis with us through the night!
’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky—
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O’er the mid-waves of fight!
THE SPARTANS’ MARCH.[249]
[“The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the ‘Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.’ The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur.”—Campbell, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.]
’Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dress’d the vines;
Sunlight was on Cithæron’s rills,
Arcadia’s rocks and pines.
And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander’d by,
When a sound arose from Sparta’s towers
Of solemn harmony.
Was it the hunters’ choral strain
To the woodland-goddess pour’d?
Did virgin hands in Pallas’ fane
Strike the full-sounding chord?
But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!
And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swell’d through the deep blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.
They march’d not with the trumpet’s blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;
And the laurel groves, as on they pass’d,
Rang with no battle-shout!
They ask’d no clarion’s voice to fire
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!
And still sweet flutes their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!
So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,
Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!
[249] Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.