The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece about us see; The Spartan borne upon his shield
Was not more free.
Awake!—not Greece,—she is awake!
Awake my spirit! think through whom Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regrett'st thy youth,—why live?
The land of honorable death Is here:—up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out—less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest!
LORD BYRON.
Where are the swallows fled?
Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.
O doubting heart! Far over purple seas They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more.
Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.
O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again.
The sun has hid its rays
These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon, for spring is nigh, Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.