Classic Poem

Land of the vine, — the song, — the lute,
Land of the sword, — the spear, — the shield, —
The Spartan blade and Doric flute
Once more are on thy battle-field;
And high above the ranks of war
Rings wild the Dorian Alala!

Land of all great and glorious things,
Whose soil is full of heroes' hearts,
Back to the fountain of its springs
The current of my life-blood darts,
To think, oh shame! that thou should'st be
For one short moment less than free!

The memory of a thousand years
Is as a dream of yesterday,
When in the waste no deed appears
To mark those ages past away;
While the base offspring of the slave
Crawls to his undistinguish'd grave.

But ye have risen, like the flush
Of morning on a dreary night;
And now be like the cataract's rush,
Mighty and glorious in the light;
On, torrents, on, — and sweep away
Those barbarous hordes of haughty clay.

The spirit of an elder time,
When men's right hands were made for swords;
When Athens, on her rock sublime,
Bought no vile breath of foreign lords;
That spirit is upon you now,
And like a glory lights your brow.

The voice of ages long gone by
Comes awful from the shades below, —
" Your father's sword is at your thigh,
Your father's curse is on the foe;
Son of the Greek! the veriest slave
May seek for Freedom in the grave! "

And now the Cross is overhead, —
The sabre-hilt is in your hand,
Beneath you are the glorious dead, —
Your foot is on your father-land,
Rank, deluged with the blood and tears
Of twice two hundred festering years!

And generous hearts, that scorn alike
The tyrant and the willing slave,
Shall bless each noble blow you strike, —
The good, the beautiful, the brave,
From the sweet south's eternal smile,
To ocean's uttermost blue isle!