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For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And the clouds perished; Darkness had no need
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
For the angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
And the widows of Ashur are laid in their wail,
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr,oppressed with perfume,, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom ; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in die; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
'Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun
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 Phæbus sprungi
But all, except their sun, is set.
The Scian and the Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamt that Greece migalt 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 dayAnd 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
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
'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 fali,
And answer, “ Let one living head,-. But one arise--we come, we come!" 'Tis but the living who are dumh.