The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1833-01-18 00:00:00

Vottrp.
THE PARGUINOTE'S FAREWELL.

(From the Eton Miscellany.)

AND must we leave our native sands,
Our native rocks, to despot sway,
To learn the tongues of foreign lands,
And moulder in a foreign clay
Yes we depart in stern disdain
Of those who crouch beneath the claire

The sun-set gilds our Ocean's breast
As softly as in days of yore ;
The plumes of snow on mduntain crest
Are shining as they shone before.
Where is that soul, by which alone
Our fathers call'd this land their own '1

We hail this calm and holy hour
Responsive to our last fart well ;
Yet, ere we go, the song shall pour
A tribute to the brave who fell,
When the red flow of Sunium's wave
Incarnadined the Persian's grave.

Oh, for that spark of living fire,
Whose stirring impulse raised the cry,
When Greece, resistless in her ire,
Rush'd on to conquer or to die :
Mark ! how they answer to the shock,
The echoes of the island rock.

Those hearts are still'd for ever now,
Those hands have moulder'd in the son ;
While Greece can see the myrtle bough,
Yet tremble at a tyrant's nod.
Dost thou forget, Athenian slave,
What foliage wreath'd the hero's glaive

Our fathers' bones are on the shore,
Our fathers met a hero's doom :
We go—to view this land no more ;
And dare we leave a hero's tomb
To foes who wield o'er land and sea
A sword to crush the brave and free 1

No—light the pile. to wrap in flames
The relics of our glorious sires ;
This land will not forget the names
Of those who fell : ascend ye fires,
And flash defiance, as we go,
Upon the traitor and the foe.

ON THE DEATH OF A PATRIOT.

(Prom The Same.)

'Tis morn ; the sound of muffled drum
Tells that the dreaded time is come ;
Along the streets, a servile band,
The hirelings of the tyrant stand :
Their souls no sense of shame can turn,
No generous feelings in them burn ;
Fit instruments for despot lord,
His will, their guide ; their hope, reward.
To these, upon this fatal day,
The charge is given to clear the way;
These round the prison's gloomy gate
The coming of the patriot wait,
The victim of perverted laws,
The last, sole hope of freedom's cause.
Ask you his crime ? could such a breast
His country's wrongs forgive ?
Could such a spirit tamely rest,
Till tyrants ceased to live ?
Could he crouch to a despot's yoke ?
No—sooner seek to bend the oak !
Him saw the tyrant ; him he knew
To freedom and his country true :
Ile knew him proof against each wile,
Each haughty frown, each treacherous smile.
Vain was his sceptred pride, to tame
The breast which own'd a patriot's flame :
Yet ill the tyrant's soul could brook!
The freedom of that manly look.
The mutter'd curse, the gloomy sneer,
Which spoke of deadly vengeance near :
11l could he bear those words of blame.
That told of freedom's injured name.
Of, broken laws, of trampled rights,
By him, and by his parasites :
These were the crimes for which the slave,
By treacherous bribes suborn'd,
Dared to traduce the injured brave,
Who proffer'd mercy scorn'd.
Should he to despots bend a knee ?
Should he submit to tyranny ?
And lead a life of endless pain,
Beneath his master's galling chain 2
But now the neighbouring convent's tower
Proclaim'd the long-expected hour.
Forth from the gate the captive came ;
His step, his voice, his cheek, the same,
Save, that of rage, a deeper trace
Was pictured in his glowing face :
And on his fetter'd arm each vein
With throbbing seem'd to burst its chain ;
While frequent heavings of his vest
Show'd the wild tumults of his breast.
And now the dreaded spot appear'd,
'Where its sad form the scaflbld rear'd ;
'Where instruments of deadly fate,
The block, the axe, the prisoner wait.
Not e'en this new unwonted sight
Had power the patriot's soul to fright ;
With eye unchanged, with thoughts on God,
Firmly the fatal stair he trod ;
Once to his lips the cross he press'd,
And breathed one prayer to Heaven
His wrongs forgave, his sins confess'd,
And bade the blow be given !