In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high 75 As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force— Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth’s returns 80 For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. * * * * * =THE ISLES OF GREECE.= I. The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,— Where Delos rose and Phœbus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, 5 But all, except their sun, is set. II. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute 10 To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.” III. The mountains look on Marathon— And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, 15 I dream’d that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians’ grave, I could not deem myself a slave. IV. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; 20 And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations;—all were his! He counted them at break of day— And when the sun set, where were they? V. And where are they? and where art thou 25 My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now— The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine? 30 VI. ’Tis something, in the dearth of fame, Though link’d among a fetter’d race, To feel at least a patriot’s shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? 35 For Greeks a blush—for Greece a tear. VII. Must _we_ but weep o’er days more blest? Must _we_ but blush?—Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! 40 Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ! VIII. What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no;—the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, 45 And answer, “Let one living head, But one arise—we come, we come!” ’Tis but the living who are dumb. IX. In vain—in vain; strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 50 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call— How answers each bold Bacchanal! X.