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lirik lagu the isles of greece - mark rivers

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 phoebus 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 refusе:
their place of birth alone is mutе
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 dream’d 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 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?
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 thermopylae!

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 ign0ble call—
how answers each bold bacch~n~l!

you have the pyrrhic dance as yet;
where is the pyrrhic phalanx gone?
of two such lessons, why forget
the n0bler 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 br~~sts 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!

- lirik lagu the isles of greece

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