Again to the battle Achaians!
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;
Our land,—the first garden of Liberty's tree—
It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free;
For the cross of our faith is replanted,
The pale, dying crescent is daunted,
And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves
May be washed out in blood from our forefather's graves.
Their spirits are hovering o'er us,
And the sword shall to glory restore us.
Ah! what though no succor advances,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances
Are stretched in our aid?—Be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone;
For we've sworn by our country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragged from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,—
That living we will be victorious,
Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.
A breath of submission we breathe not;
The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not;
Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,
And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade.
Earth may hide—waves engulf—fire consume us,
But they shall not to slavery doom us:
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves,—
But we've smote them already with fire on the waves,
And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge!—Heaven's banner is o'er us!
This day—shall ye blush for its story?
Or brighten your lives with its glory?—
Our women—O say, shall they shriek in despair,
Or embrace us from conquest, with wreaths in their hair?
Accursed may his memory blacken,
If a coward there be that would slacken,
Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth
Being sprung from, and named for, the godlike of earth.
Strike home!—and the world shall revere us
As heroes descended from heroes.
Old Greece lightens up with emotion
Her inlands, her isles of the ocean:
Fanes rebuilt, and fair towns, shall with jubilee sing,
And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring.
Our hearths shall be kindled with gladness,
That were cold, and extinguished in sadness;
Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms,
Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms,—
When the blood of you Mussulman cravens
Shall have crimsoned the beaks of our ravens.
T. Campbell.
CCXVII.
THE FLIGHT OF XERXES.
I saw him on the battle-eve
When like a king he bore him;
Proud hosts in glittering helm and greave,
And prouder chiefs, before him.
The warrior and the warrior's deeds,
The morrow and the morrow's meeds,—
No daunting thought came o'er him;
He looked around him, and his eye
Defiance flashed to earth and sky.
He looked on ocean,—its broad breast
Was covered with his fleet:
On earth,—and saw from east to west
His bannered millions meet;
While rock, and glen, and cave, and coast,
Shook with the war-cry of that host,
The thunder of their feet!
He heard the imperial echoes ring,—
He heard, and felt himself a king.
I saw him next alone;—nor camp
Nor chief his steps attended;
Nor banner blazed, nor courser's tramp
With war-cries proudly blended.
He stood alone, whom Fortune high
So lately seemed to deify,
He, who with Heaven contended,
Fled like a fugitive and slave!—
Behind, the foe; before, the wave!