In the year since Jesus died for men, Eighteen hundred years and ten, We were a gallant company, Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea Oh ! but we went merrily ! We forded the river, and clomb the high hill, Never our steeds for a day stood still; Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed: Whether we couch'd in our rough capote, On the rougher plank of our gliding boat. Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread As a pillow beneath the resting head, Fresh we woke upon the morrow: All our thoughts and words had scope, We had health, and we had hope, Toil and travel, but no sorrow. We were of all tongues and creeds; --- Some were those who counted beads, Some of mosque, and some of church; Yet through the wide world might ye search, Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. But some are dead, and some are gone, And some are scatter'd and alone, And some are rebels on the hills That look along Epirus' valleys, Where freedom still at moments rallies, And pays in blood oppression's ills; And some are in a far countree, And some all restlessly at home; But never more, oh ! never, we Shall meet to revel and to roam. But those hardy days flew cheerily ! And when they now fall drearily, My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, And bear my spirit back again Over the earth, and through the air, A wild bird and a wanderer. 'Tis this that ever wakes my strain, And oft, too oft, implores again The few who may endure my lay, To follow me so far away. Stranger --- wilt thou follow now, And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow?
Many a vanish'd year and age, And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, Have swept o'er Corinth; yet she stands, A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock, Have left untouch'd her hoary rock, The keystone of a land, which still, Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill. The landmark in the double tide That purpling rolls on either side, As if their waters chafed to meet, Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. But could the blood before her shed Since first Timoleon's brother bled, Or baffled Persia's despot fled, Arise from out the earth which drank The stream of slaughter as it sank, That sanquine ocean would o'erflow Her isthmus idly spread below; Or could the bones of all the slain, Who perish'd there, be piled again, That rival pyramid would rise More mountain-like, through those clear skies, Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, Which seems the very clouds to kiss.
On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears; And downward to the Isthmian plain, From shore to shore of either main, The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines Along the Moslem's leaguering lines; And the dusk Spahi's bands advance Beneath each bearded pacha's glance; And far and wide as eye can reach The turban'd cohorts throng the beach; And there the Arab's camel kneels, And there his steed the Tartar wheels; The turcoman hath left his herd, The sabre round his loins to gird; And there the volleying thunders pour, Till waves grow smoother to the roar. The trench is dug, the cannon's breath Wings the far hissing globe of death; Fast whirl the fragments from the wall Which crumbles with the ponderous ball; And from that wall the foe replies, O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, With fires that answer fast and well The summons of the Infidel.
But near and nearest to the wall
Of those who wish and work its fall, With deeper skill in war's black art Than Othman's sons, and high of heart As any chief that ever stood Triumphant in the fields of blood; From post to post, and deed to deed, Fast spurring on his reeking steed, Where sallying ranks the trench assail, And make the foremost Moslem quail; Or where the battery, guarded well, Remains as yet impregnable, Alighting cheerly to inspire The soldier slackening in his fire; The first and freshest of the host Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast, To guide the follower o'er the field, To point the tube, the lance to wield, Or whirl around the bickering blade; --- Was Alp, the Adrian renegade.