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SONG OF THE GREEKS.
Again to the battle, Achaians !
Ah! what though no succour advances,
Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!
* A breath of submission we breathe not;
If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves ; But we've smote them already with fire on the
And new triumphs on land are before us.
To the charge !-Heaven's banner is o'er us.
This day shall ye blush for its story,
Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth.
Strike home, and the world shall revere us
Old Greece lightens up with emotion
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.
THE LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS
ON HER BIRTH-DAY.
If 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,
And changed its weeds to flowers.