And the lightnings in their play

Flashed forth, like javelins thrown,

Like sun-darts winged from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow;
And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray,
And the banners were struck down!

And the massy oak-boughs crashed To the fire-bolts from on high, And the forest lent its billowy roar,

While the glorious tempest onward bore,

And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed, With the fierce rain sweeping by.

Then rushed the Delphian men

On the pale and scattered host.

Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rushed from the dim Corycian cave;
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen
Rolled on, with the spears they tossed.

There were cries of wild dismay,

There were shouts of warrior-glee,

There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
But the mount of song, when they died away,
Still rose, with its temple, free!

And the Pæan swelled ere long,

Io Paan! from the fane;

Io Pæan! for the war-array

On the crowned Parnassus riven that day!

Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song! With thy bounding streams again.

THE VOICE OF SCIO

265

THE VOICE OF SCIO

A VOICE from Scio's isle-
A voice of song, a voice of old
Swept far as cloud or billow rolled,
And earth was hushed the while -

The souls of nations woke !

Where lies the land whose hills among
That voice of victory hath not rung,
As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore,

Of those whose blood on Ilion's plain
Swept from the rivers to the main,
A glorious tale it bore.

Still by our sun-bright deep,

With all the fame that fiery lay

Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crowned ! And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave Brought garlands there; so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio's isle,

A voice as deep hath risen again;
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where'er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire!

Such power to waken earth and heaven,
And might and vengeance, ne'er was given
To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes?

From ruined hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes!

'Tis with us through the night! "Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky

Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O'er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS' MARCH

["THE Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging-step was made to the 'Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur."-CAMPBELL, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.]

"Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,
Where peasants dressed the vines ;
Sunlight was on Citharon's rills,

Arcadia's rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wandered by,

When a sound arose from Sparta's towers
Of solemn harmony.

THE SPARTANS' MARCH

Was it the hunters' choral strain

To the woodland-goddess poured? Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane

Strike the full-sounding chord ?

But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,
And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day.

And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swelled through the deep blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.

They marched not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out;

And the laurel groves, as on they passed,
Rang with no battle-shout.

They asked no clarion's voice to fire

Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty.

And still sweet flutes their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;

They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death.

So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,

Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne.

267

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY

[FOR an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. i. p. 389.]

BEFORE the fiery sun

The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,—
In the free air, and on the war-field won,
Our fathers crowned the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood,

The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot blood
Had steeped the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They called the glorious dead,

In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And poured rich odours o'er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their rite of Liberty.

They called them from the Shades

The golden-fruited Shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light the immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o'er meads of asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine

Flowed to their names who taught the world to die,
And made the land's green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.