Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free: For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us. Ah! what though no succour advances, 1 Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone : Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious. A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide-waves engulph-fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us : If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on land are before us. This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, Oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes. Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new-hallow their Helicon's spring: Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguish'd in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that deliver'd their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens. ད་མར་སྒྲ (88) 1701 W2 THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS ON HER BIRTH-DAY. Ir any white-wing'd Power above My joys and griefs survey, The day when thou wert born, my love He surely bless'd that day. I laugh'd (till taught by thee) when told Of Beauty's magic powers, That ripen'd life's dull ore to gold, And changed its weeds to flowers. |