Classic Poem

O'er Greece a dawn is rising;
The clouds that shroud her break away:
Again, behold! the immortal day,
When Persia's hosts chastising,
In Marathon's unequal fight,
The demigods of old arose,
And, mantled in the patriot's might,
Drove back in shame their myriad foes,
And crowned their brows with civic wreaths of light.

That day shall never perish!
The grass grows green above their graves;
But Liberty will cherish
The turf for ages trod by slaves.
She sounds her trumpet: " Greeks, arise!
Be men once more! O, let the hallowed stream
That flows to you from Lacedaemon, glow
With new-waked ardor; let the beam
Of independence purge your eyes,
And, waking from your long, long dream
Of prostrate thraldom, front the skies,
And bear, with onward breast, against your tyrant foe. "

She stands on mangled Parthenon,
And in her raised, commanding hand
She waves aloft her thirsty brand,
And points to fields your hardy parents won,
When not a foe dared touch their land,
Who fled not, clothed with blood and shame:
O, what a pure, unmingled flame
Of high, enduring, jealous freedom shone
In hearts of stern, but fine-wrought mould, —
Hearts that spurned at power and gold,
And scorned the proudest monarch on his throne!

Though few, they shrunk not when the prowlers came
In countless swarms, like locusts, to devour
Their harvests and destroy their name,
And o'er their much-loved country shower
Blood and havoc, tears and flame:
Yes, in that dark and awful hour,
When Xerxes, with his ravening host,
Hung, threatening vengeance, on their coast,
No eye was dim, no cheek was pale;
Their blood was up, their hearts were glowing,
And, like a storm-fed torrent flowing
With foam and fury through the echoing vale,
From their rude battlements of rocks they rushed,
And with their giant tread the awe-struck Persian crushed.

Greeks! arise, be free!
Arm for liberty!
Men of Sparta! hear the call,
Who could never bear the thrall
Of coward Frank or savage Turk!
From those mountains where you lurk,
Send the voice of Freedom forth,
Spread it through the fettered North,
And from Morea tear her funeral pall.
Now the nations are waking
From slavery's night;
Their manacles breaking,
They haste to the fight,

Where tyrants shall make their last stand for their thrones:
O, by your stripes, your tears, your groans,
Now gird your loins with vengeance! let the fire
Of high achievement heart and soul inspire;
Be nerved to die or conquer, fixed to fall,
Like Sparta's sacred band before the wall,
Which stood a bulwark to the invading swarm!
O, be your hearts thus bold, thus warm,
Devoted to your country's cause!
Be there no stay, no rest, no pause!
Once more the sun of Liberty shall pour
Its brightest glories on the Ægean shore.