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Again to the battle, Achaians !
Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance; visi
Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree-- Lid
It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:
For the cross of our faith is replanted, I
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,
Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!
And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone :
For we've sworn by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins,
That living, we shall be victorious, .
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


And new triumphs on land are before us.

To the charge !-Heaven's banner is o'er us.

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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


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.




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,
That ripen'd life’s dull ore to gold,

And changed its weeds to flowers.

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