Shall we turn slaves while on the Alpine cones
And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks
The morning light of liberty?—What thrones
Can equal those which on our fathers’ bones
The demagogue would build? What chains so gall
As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns
Till they eat deeply—till the live pains crawl
Into his soul who caused himself to fall!
Men’s freedom may be wrested from their hands,
And they may mourn; but not like those who throw