And made the land's green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.1

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?

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A VOICE from Scio's isleA 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 !

1 For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Plata, see POTTER'S Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389.

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 skyHear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high O'er the mid-waves of fight!

THE SPARTANS' MARCH.2

["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 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?

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,
Rang 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!

2 Originally published in the Edinburgh Magazine.