| The isles of Greece ! the isles of Greece |
| Where burning
Sappho loved and sung, |
| Where grew the arts of war and peace, |
| Where Delos rose,
and Phœbus sprung ! |
| Eternal summer gilds them yet, |
But all, except their sun, is set.
|
| The Scian and the Teian muse, |
| The hero’s harp,
the lover’s lute, |
| Have found the fame your shores refuse : |
| Their place of
birth alone is mute |
| To sounds which echo further west |
Than your sires’ ‘Islands of the Blest.’
|
| The mountains look on Marathon— |
| And Marathon looks
on the sea ; |
| And musing there an hour alone, |
| I dreamed that
Greece might still be free ; |
| For standing on the Persians’ grave, |
I could not deem myself a slave.
|
| A king sate on the rocky brow |
| Which looks o’er
sea-born Salamis ; |
| And ships, by thousands, lay below, |
| And men in
nations;—all were his ! |
| He counted them at break of day— |
And when the sun set, where were they ?
|
| And where are they ? and where art thou, |
| My country ? On
thy voiceless shore |
| The heroic lay is tuneless now— |
| The heroic bosom
beats no more ! |
| And must thy lyre, so long divine, |
Degenerate into hands like mine ?
|
| ’Tis something in the dearth of fame, |
| Though linked
among a fettered race, |
| To feel at least a patriot’s shame, |
| Even as I sing,
suffuse my face ; |
| For what is left the poet here ? |
For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear.
|
| Must we but weep o’er days more
blest ? |
| Must we but
blush ?—Our fathers bled. |
| Earth ! render back from out thy breast |
| A remnant of our
Spartan dead ! |
| Of the three hundred grant but three, |
To make a new Thermopylæ !
|
| What, silent still ? and silent all ? |
| Ah ! no ;—the
voices of the dead |
| Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, |
| And answer, ‘Let
one living head, |
| But one, arise,—we come, we come !’ |
’Tis but the living who are dumb.
|
| In vain—in vain : strike other chords ; |
| Fill high the cup
with Samian wine ! |
| Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, |
| And shed the blood
of Scio’s vine ! |
| Hark ! rising to the ignoble call— |
How answers each bold Bacchanal !
|
| You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet ; |
| Where is the
Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? |
| Of two such lessons, why forget |
| The nobler and the
manlier one ? |
| You have the letters Cadmus gave— |
Think ye he meant them for a slave ?
|
| Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! |
| We will not think
of themes like these ! |
| It made Anacreon’s song divine : |
| He served—but
served Polycrates— |
| A tyrant ; but our masters then |
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
|
| The tyrant of the Chersonese |
| Was freedom’s best
and bravest friend ; |
| That tyrant was Miltiades ! |
| O that the
present hour would lend |
| Another despot of the kind ! |
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
|
| Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! |
| On Suli’s rock,
and Parga’s shore, |
| Exists the remnant of a line |
| Such as the Doric
mothers bore ; |
| And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, |
The Heracleidan blood might own.
|
| Trust not for freedom to the Franks— |
| They have a king
who buys and sells ; |
| In native swords and native ranks |
| The only hope of
courage dwells : |
| But Turkish force and Latin fraud |
Would break your shield, however broad.
|
| Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! |
| Our virgins dance
beneath the shade— |
| I see their glorious black eyes shine ; |
| But gazing on each
glowing maid, |
| My own the burning tear-drop laves, |
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
|
| Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, |
| Where nothing,
save the waves and I, |
| May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; |
| There, swan-like,
let me sing and die : |
| A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine— |
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine !
|
| Lord Byron |
Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Destruction of the Sennacherib ] [ Growing Old ] [ She Walks in Beauty ] [ Italy versus England ] [ The Eve of Waterloo ] [ from The Prisoner of Chillon ] [ The Isles of Greece ] [ from Don Juan ] |
