Greece

Greece

Land of heroes and of sages,
Waking from thy sleep of ages,
Rouse thee! 'tis no hour for slumber,
Foes, as ocean's sands in number,
Gird thee. 'Tis not now the Asian
Gives thy fields to desolation;
'Tis not now the archer Mede,
Rushing as before - to bleed!
'Tis not now the Persian's car
Glitters in the ranks of war: -
They can waste thy fields no longer;
But a prouder foe, and stronger,
Battles round each leaguer'd wall,
Striving fierce to work thy fall.
Wake thee, to the hour of danger!
Turn thee on the tyrant stranger,
And for ever tear thy name
From the burning page of shame.
Bid thy sons remember well
From what height their country fell!
What the splendors once that crown'd her
When the nations bow'd around her!
When on red Plataea's plain
Persia's myriads fought in vain;
Down Aesopus' waters roll'd
Host on host; and arms of gold,
Shield and spear, and bow and quiver,
Mingled in the blood stain'd river,
With the dead, where lord and slave
Floated down the same red wave.
Such, before her sons betray'd her,

Was the doom she gave the invader!

Unattributed

1:3, p. 12

1827.03.30