LXXIV. Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow 34 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslav'd; in word, in deed unmann'd. LXXV. In all save form alone, how chang'd! and who And many dream withal the hour is nigh Or tear their name defil'd from Slavery's mournful page. LXXVI. Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no! True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same} Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 35 Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth-ere lenten days begin, LXXIX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine, Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, All felt the common joy they now must feign, Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, Oft Music chang'd, but never ceas'd her tone, And timely echo'd back the measur'd oar, And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. LXXXI. Glanc'd many a light caique along the foam, These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill! LXXXII. But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd LXXXIII. This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! |