A gloom fell o'er their way!

'Twas not the shadow cast

By the dark pine-boughs, as they cross'd the blue
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue;
The air was fill'd with a mightier sway,—
But on the spearmen pass'd!

And hollow, to their tread,

Came the echoes of the ground,
And banners droop'd, as with the dew o'erborne,
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn
Had an alter'd cadence dull and dead,
Of strange foreboding sound.

But they blew a louder strain
When the steep defiles were pass'd !
And afar the crown'd Parnassus rose,
To shine thro' heaven with his radiant snows,
And in golden light the Delphian fane
Before them stood at last!

In golden light it stood,

Midst the laurels gleaming lone,
For the Sun-God yet, with a lovely smile,
O'er its graceful pillars look'd awhile,
Tho' the stormy shade on cliff and wood
Grew deep round its mountain-throne.

And the Persians gave a shout!
But the marble walls replied,
With a clash of steel, and a sullen roar
Like heavy wheels on the ocean shore,
And a savage trumpet's note peal'd out,
Till their hearts for terror died!

On the armour of the god

Then a viewless hand was laid;

There were helm and spear, with a clanging din,
And corslet brought from the shrine within,
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode,
And before its front array'd.

And a sudden silence fell

Thro' the dim and loaded air!

On the wild bird's wing, and the myrtle-spray,
And the very founts, in their silvery way,
With a weight of sleep came down the spell,
Till man grew breathless there.

But the pause was broken soon!

'Twas not by song or lyre;

For the Delphian maids had left their bowers,
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers,,
But there burst a sound thro' the misty noon,
That battle-noon of fire!

It burst from earth and heaven!
It roll'd from crag and cloud!
For a moment of the mountain-blast,
With a thousand stormy voices pass'd,
And the purple gloom of the sky was riven,
When the thunder peal'd aloud.

And the lightnings in their play
Flash'd forth, like javelins thrown;

Like sun-darts wing'd from the silver bow,
They smote the spear and the turban'd brow,
And the bright gems flew from the crest like spray,
And the banners were struck down!

And the massy oak-boughs crash'd
To the fire-bolts from on high;
And the forest lent its billowy roar,
While the glorious tempest onward bore,
And lit the streams, as they foam'd and dash'd,
With the fierce rain sweeping by.

Then rush'd the Delphian men
On the pale and scatter'd host;
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave,
They rush'd from the dim Corycian cave,
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen

Roll'd on, with the spears they toss'd.

There were cries of wild dismay,
There were shouts of warrior-glee,

There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth,
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth;
But the mount of song, when they died away,
Still rose, with its temple, free!

And the Pæan swell'd ere long,
Io Paan! from the fane;

Io Paan! for the war-array,

On the crown'd Parnassus riven that day!-
Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song!
With thy bounding streams again.

II.

THE BOWL OF LIBERTY.*

BEFORE the fiery sun,

The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye,
In the free air, and on the war-field won,
Our fathers crown'd the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood,

The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies,
And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood
Had steep'd the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They call'd the glorious dead,

In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour'd rich odours o'er the battle-bed,
And bade them to the rite of Liberty.

They call'd them from the shades,

The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell
How softer light th' immortal clime pervades,
And music floats o'er meads of Asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine t

Flow'd to their names who taught the world to die,
And made the land's green turf a living shrine,
Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.

So the rejoicing earth

Took from her vines again the blood she gave,
And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth
From the free soil, thus hallow'd to the brave.

We have the battle-fields,

The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky,
We have the founts the purple vintage yields ;-
When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?

This and the following piece appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine.

For an account of th s ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration. of the battle of Platea, see Potter's "Antiquities of Greece," vol. i.p. 38).

III.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A VOICE from Scio's isle-
A voice of song, a voice of old,
Swept far as cloud or billow roll'd;

And earth was hush'd the while.

The souls of nations woke ! Where lies the land whose hills among That voice of Victory hath not rung, As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore Of those whose blood, on Ilion's plain, Swept from the rivers to the main, A glorious tale it bore.

Still, by our sun-bright deep,
With all the fame that fiery lay
Threw round them, in its rushing way,
The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown'd! And pilgrims o'er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio's isle,
A voice as deep hath risen again!
As far shall peal its thrilling strain,
Where'er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire! Such power to waken earth and heaven, And might and vengeance, ne'er was given To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes?—
From ruin'd hearths, from burning fanes,
From kindred blood on yon red plains,
From desolated homes.

'Tis with us through the night!
'Tis on our hills, 'tis in our sky-
Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high
O'er the mid-waves of fight!

IV.

THE SPARTAN'S MARCH.*

"The Spartans used not the trumpet in their march into battle, says Thucydides, because they wished not to excite the rage of their warriors. Their charging step was made to the Dorian mood of flutes and soft recorders.' The valour of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or rousing impulse. His spirit was like a steed too proud for the spur."-CAMPBELL, On the Elegiac Poetry of the Greeks.

'Twas morn upon the Grecian hills,

Where peasants dress'd the vines,
Sunlight was on Citharon's rills,
Arcadia's rocks and pines.

And brightly, through his reeds and flowers,
Eurotas wander'd by,

When a sound arose from Sparta's towers

Of solemn harmony.