STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS LATEST KILLED IN RESISTING THE REGENCY AND THE DUKE OF ANGOULEME. BRAVE men who at the Trocadero fell- For Freedom, and ye have not died in vain ; Spain To honour, ay, embrace your martyr'd lot, Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot! What though your cause be baffled-freemen cast Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell! Go to your bloody rites again-bring back Yet laugh not in your carnival of crime Glory to them that die in this great cause; 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 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, 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 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 Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, 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. |