Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that

fell,

The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell!

Go to your bloody rites again-bring back
The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen,
Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack ;
Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ;-
Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den ;—
Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal
With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again,
To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel
No eye may search-no tongue may challenge or
reveal!

Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime

Too proudly, ye oppressors!-Spain was free,
Her soil has felt the foot-prints, and her clime
Been winnow'd by the wings of Liberty;
And these even parting scatter as they flee
Thoughts-influences, to live in hearts unborn,
Opinions that shall wrench the prison-key
From Persecution-show her mask off-torn,
And tramp her bloated head beneath the foot of
Scorn.

Glory to them that die in this great cause;
Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,

Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause:

No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame! Your hangmen fingers cannot touch his fame! Still in your prostrate land there shall be some Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.

Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb, But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

1823.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance !

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's treeIt 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,
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 engulf-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,

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

selves 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.

ODE TO WINTER.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun
His heavenly race began to run ;
Round the earth and ocean blue,
His children four the Seasons flew.
First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace:

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smiles,
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-cover'd isles :

More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But howling Winter fled afar,
To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride
With barren Darkness by his side,
Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale,