The monuments that mount thy marble peaks,
Surely from these some voice heroic speaks.
Thy place is in the vanguard of the free,
And comrade of the Turk thou canst not be.
Around thee, Greece, the tide of battle swells
From Serbia southward to the Dardanelles.
While from the Rhine the Siren thee beguiles,
Brooding meanwhile enslavement of thine isles.
The Bulgar thunders on thy hilly flanks,
The Turk, Hun-bought, arrays his crimsoned ranks,
And fresh from slaughter where Armenia cowers,
Lifts praise to Allah as on thee he lowers.
Joyous the memory of thy ancient power,
Golden thy lyrics and thy martial dower,
Proud was thy form when Greatness thee attired,
When Homer sang and Phidias inspired.
Hast thou forgotten one of Saxon strain?
Canst thou remember Byron and refrain?
His was the voice that waked the God in thee,
And his the race that wrought to make thee free.
Remember still how wise Ulysses chose,
When from the deep the dulcet chant arose,
Now be thy soul, O Greece, with wisdom strong!
Reject not Orpheus for the Siren's song.
Where chooseth Greece, while moves the dark intrigue,
Where Progress beckons or where despots league?
Each hour supine promotes oppression's goal,
Betrays mankind, and tarnishes thy soul.
IRELAND
Harp of my country, I tune thee with gladness,
Now thy wild song all my being o'erfills,
Lifting my soul from its memories of sadness,
Flooding with joy as it vibrates and thrills.