Of sire and husband, slain where host met host,
And, in the flush of pride, forget the tear:
Our pilgrim mothers, too, could conquer fear,
And stifle sorrow; but their hearts enshrined
The soft affections: Who loves not to hear
Their praises sung?—their constancy of mind,
Amid thy daughters’ Greece, we strive in vain to find!
White lay the snow flakes on the lonely shore,
And Winter flung his banner on the blast—
Behind swept angry waters, and before