Even as I sing, suffuse my face;
For what is left the poet here?
For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.
7.
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 Thermopylæ!