GREECE--1832. BY J. G. BROOKS. Land of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned, And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land, where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopylæ of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore! Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Her soul entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung-- Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song. Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Her banner float above thy waves Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again? No! coward souls! the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beamed on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shattered--spear in rust-- Thy honour but a dream--and thou Despised--degraded in the dust! Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom?-- The bold three hundred--where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay, Where death has hushed them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; And fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living, but the dead! But 'tis the dim sepulchral light, Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moon-beams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way. Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance, Behold thy banner waves afar; Behold the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war! A gallant chief, of high emprize, Is urging foremost in the field, Who calls upon thee to arise In might--in majesty revealed. In vain, in vain the hero calls-- In vain he sounds the trumpet loud! His banner totters--see! it falls In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud: Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, And reared his golden arch on high; Where Science raised her sacred fane, Its summits peering to the sky; Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of science and of song.