Edwardsville spectator. [volume] (Edwardsville, Ill.) 1819-1826, 1822-03-05

of expression. Such poetry would have dor
honor to Greece in her proudest days; and
her ignoble sons had not too often
"fiN'd high their CUPS NTH Samian 4ri,le,"
the Tyre of such bard, like that of T'yrtxu
would revive the martial and heroic spirit
their fathers, and animate them to indepel
dence and freedom
THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sapho lov'd and sung,
Where grew the arts OF war and peace
Where Delos rose, and PhUbus sprung
Eternal summer gilds them yet
But all. except their sun, is set.
The Scian and Teian muse,
The hero's harp, the lovers Lutte,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo further west,
Than your sires' "Islands of the best"
The mountains look on Marathon
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone
dream'd that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persan's grave
could not deem myself slave.
A king sat on the rocky brow,
Which look'd DER sea-born Saamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations all were his
He counted them at break of dav,
And when the sun set, where were they?
And where we're 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 Tyre SO long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine
IT'S something in the dearth of fame,
Though link'd among the fetter'd race
To feel at least patriots shame,
Even as sing, suffilse my face;
Tor what is left the poet here
For Greeks blush-for Greece tear.
Must 7pe but weep DER days more blesta
Must ne 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 anew Thcrmopyle.
What, silent still and silent all3
All! no the voices of the dead
Sound like distant torrents fall,
And answer, "Let one living head,
But one arise--we come, we come -
IT'S but the living who are dumb.
IN vain--in vain; strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine,
Leave battles to the Turkish bordcs,
And shed the blood of Solos vine.
Hark rising to the ignobles' call
How answers each bold bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalarx gomez
of two such lessons. WhV FORGET
The nobler and the manlier one
You have the letters Cadmus gave
Think ye he meant them for slave
EiIl high the bowl with Samian wine.
We will not think of themes like these;
It made Anachreon's song divine:
He served, but served Polycrates,
A tyrant; but our masters then
Were still, at least, our countrymen.
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedoms best and bravest friend;
That tyrant was Mlltiades
Oh! that the present hour would lend
Another despot of the kind
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Saman wine!
On Suits rock, and Parge's shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there, perhaps, some seeds sown,
The Hercleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks:
They have king who buys and sells;
In native swords, and native ranks,
The only hope courage dwells;
But Turkish force, and Latin fraud,
Would break your shield, however broad.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade:
see their glorious black eyes shine
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-.lrop Iaves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium's marble steep,
Where nothing save the winds andI,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan.like, let me sing and die:
Aland of slaves shall ne'er be mine:
Dash down yon cup Of Samian wine!