And where are they? and where art thou 25 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? 30
’Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link’d among a fetter’d race, To feel at least a patriot’s shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? 35 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! 40 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, 45 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! 50 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, 55 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? 60
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 65 Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Cheronese Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; _That_ tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend 70 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 75 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; 80 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! 85 Our virgins dance beneath the shade— I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, Mine own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 90