ONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,

And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.

CHORUS.

Sons of Greeks! let us go

In arms against the foe,

Till their hated blood shall flow In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising

The Turkish tyrant's yoke,

Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we 're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers

Lethargic dost thou lie? Awake, and join thy numbers

With Athens, old ally!

Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song.

Who saved ye once from falling,

The terrible! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopylæ,
And warring with the Persian

To keep his country free;

With his three hundred waging

The battle, long he stood, And like a lion raging,

Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

WAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence-for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.

To me they speak of brighter days-
But lull the chords, for now, alas!

I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!

Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

"Tis silent all!-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill;

I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still : Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake; Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;

A star that trembled o'er the deep,
-Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
But he who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

December 6, 1811.