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The mountains look on marathon –
And marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dream’d that greece might still be free;
For standing on the persian’s grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.
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!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new thermopylae!
Fill high the bowl with samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade –
I see their glorious black eyes shine;
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
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!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new thermopylae!
Place me on sunium’s marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and i,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine –
Dash down yon cup of samian wine!
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!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new thermopylae!
