They call'd the glorious dead,

In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh,
And pour'd rich odors o'er their battle-bed,
And bade them to their 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*

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?

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.

For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in com memoration of the battle of Platæa, see POTTER's Antiquities of Greece, vol. i., p. 389.

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 SPARTANS' 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 valor of a Spartan was too highly tempered to require a stunning or a 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.

Was it the hunters' choral strain

To the woodland-goddess pour'd?

Did virgin hands in Pallas' fane
Strike the full sounding chord?

*Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine

But helms were glancing on the stream,
Spears ranged in close array,

And shields flung back a glorious beam
To the morn of a fearful day!

And the mountain-echoes of the land
Swell'd through the deep-blue sky;
While to soft strains moved forth a band
Of men that moved to die.

They march'd not with the trumpet's blast,
Nor bade the horn peal out,

And the laurel groves, as on they pass'd,
Rung with no battle shout!

They ask'd no clarion's voice to fire
Their souls with an impulse high;
But the Dorian reed and the Spartan lyre
For the sons of liberty!

And still sweet flutes, their path around
Sent forth Æolian breath;
They needed not a sterner sound
To marshal them for death!

So moved they calmly to their field,
Thence never to return,

Save bearing back the Spartan shield,
Or on it proudly borne!

V. THE URN AND SWORD.

THEY sought for treasures in the tomb,
Where gentler hands were wont to spread
Fresh boughs and flowers of purple bloom,
And sunny ringlets, for the dead.*

They scatter'd far the greensward heap,
Where once those hands the bright wine pour'd;
-What found they in the home of sleep?-
A mouldering urn, a shiver'd sword'

An urn, which held the dust of one

Who died when hearths and shrines were free; A sword, whose work was proudly done Between our mountains and the sea.

* See Potter's Grecian Antiquities, vol. ii.

P. 234.

And these are treasures ?-undismay'd,
Still for the suffering land we trust,
Wherein the past its fame hath laid,
With freedom's sword, and valor's dust.

VI.--THE MYRTLE BOUGH.

STILL green, along our sunny shore,
The flowering myrtle waves,
As when its fragrant boughs of yore
Were offer'd on the graves-
The graves, wherein our mighty men
Had rest, unviolated then.

Still green it waves! as when the hearth
Was sacred through the land;
And fearless was the banquet's mirth,
And free the minstrel's hand;

And guests, with shining myrtle crown'd,

Sent the wreath'd lyre and wine-cup round.

Still green! as when on holy ground
The tyrant's blood was pour'd:
Forget ye not what garlands bound
The young deliverer's sword!

Though earth may shroud Harmodius now,
We still have sword and myrtle bough!

ELYSIUM.

"In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and persons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth; the children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes, that is to say, Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence, were banished to the infernal Regions." CHATEAUBRIAND, Génie du Christianisme.

FAIR Wert thou in the dreams

Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams,
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers,
Where, as they pass'd, bright hours

Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things!

Fair wert thou, with the light

On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast,
From purple skies ne'er deep'ning into night,
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last
Of glory, fading fast

Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.

And ever, through thy shades,

A swell of deep olian sound went by,
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer's breezy sigh,

And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath,
Which ne'er had touch'd them with a hue of death!

And the transparent sky

Rung as a dome, all thrilling to the strain

Of harps that, 'midst the woods, made harmony
Solemn and sweet; yet troubling not the brain
With dreams and yearnings vain,

And dim remembrances, that still draw birth
From the bewild'ring music of the earth.

And who, with silent tread,

Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel?
Call'd from the dim procession of the dead,

Who, 'midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell,
And listen to the swell

Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale

The spirit wand'ring in the immortal gale?

They of the sword, whose praise,

With the bright wine at nations' feasts, went round!

They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays

Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound,

And in all regions found

'Their echoes 'midst the mountains!-and become

In man's deep heart as voices of his home!

They of the daring thought!

Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied

Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sough The soul's far birthplace-but without a guide!

Sages and seers, who died,

And left the world their high mysterious dreams,

Born 'midst the olive woods, by Grecian streams.

But the most loved are they

Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice,
In regal halls!--the shades o'erhang their way,