O’er freedom’s ancient battle-plains?
Let deserts wrap the glorious dead
When their bright Land sits weeping o’er her chains.
Here, where the Persian clarion rung,
And where the Spartan sword flash’d high,
And where the pæan strains were sung,
From year to year swell’d on by liberty;
Here should no voice, no sound, be heard,
Until the bonds of Greece be riven,
Save of the leader’s charging-word,