Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom?— The bold three hundred—where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay, Where death has hushed them into rest.
Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; And fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living, but the dead! But 'tis the dim sepulchral light, Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moon-beams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way.
Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance, Behold thy banner waves afar; Behold the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war! A gallant chief, of high emprize, Is urging foremost in the field, Who calls upon thee to arise In might—in majesty revealed.
In vain, in vain the hero calls— In vain he sounds the trumpet loud! His banner totters—see! it falls In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud: Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires.
Lost land! where Genius made his reign, And reared his golden arch on high; Where Science raised her sacred fane, Its summits peering to the sky; Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of science and of song.
Thy sun hath set—the evening storm Hath passed in giant fury by, To blast the beauty of thy form, And spread its pall upon the sky! Gone is thy glory's diadem, And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!
IMPROMPTU TO A LADY BLUSHING.
BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
The lilies faintly to the roses yield, As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie, (Who would not strive upon so sweet a field To win the mastery?) And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.