| 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 Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all except their sun is set. 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 Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 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 Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A King sat 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 were 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? '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; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? 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 Thermopylae! 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. 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? | 
