LORD BYRON

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations ; all were his !

He counted them at break of day

And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they ? and where art thou, My country ? On thy voiceless shore

The heroic lay is tuneless now The heroic bosom beats no more !

And must thy lyre, so long divine,

Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race,

To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face;

For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks a blush for Greece a tear.

Must tue but weep o'er days more blest?

Must we but blush ? Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae !

What, silent still? and silent all?

Ah ! no ; the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall,

And answer, ' Let one living head, But one, arise, we come, we come ! ' 7 Tis but the living who are dumb.

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