Classic Poem

A LEXANDER Y PSILANTI sate in Muncac's lofty tower;
And the rotten casement rattled in the wind that mid-night hour;
Black-wing'd clouds, in long procession, hiding moon and stars, swept by—
And the Greek prince whispered sadly: ‘Must I here, a captive, lie?’
On the distant south horizon still he gazes, half-unmanned:
‘Were I sleeping in thy dust, now, my belovéd Fatherland!’
And he flung the window open, 'twas a dreary scene to view;
Crows were swarming in the lowlands, round the cliff the eagle flew.
And again he murmured, sighing: ‘Comes there none good news to tell
From the country of my fathers?’—And his heavy lashes fell—
Was't with tears, or was't with slumber?—And his head sank on his hand:—
Lo! his face is growing brighter—dreams he of his Fatherland?
So he sate, and to the sleeper came a slender armed man,
Who, with glad and earnest visage, to the mourner thus began:
‘Alexander Ypsilanti, cheer thy heart and lift thy head!
In the narrow rocky passage where my blood was freely shed,
Where the brave three hundred Spartans slumber in a common grave,
Greece to-day has met th' oppressor, and her conquering banners wave.
This glad message to deliver was my spirit sent to thee:
Alexander Ypsilanti, Hellas' holy land is free!’
Then awoke the prince from slumber, and in ecstasy he cries:
‘'Tis Leonidas!’ and glistening tears of joy bedewed his eyes.
Hark! above his head a rustling: and a kingly eagle flies
From the window, and in moonlight spreads his pinions to the skies.