Where men may read their destinies !
Up! in thy golden panoply complete
Transfigured-all prepared to meet
The Moslem foe!

What! still unmoved, thou Sleeper! still
Untroubled by the sounds that fill
Thy agitated air!

Thy forehead set-
Thy bosom wet-
Still undisturbed!

Thy proud lip curb'd-
The death-dew on thy hair!

Awake thee, Byron! Thou art call'd,
Thou man of power! to break

The thraldom of the nations-wake!

Arise!

The heathen are upon thee! Lo, they come
Without a flute, or bell, or drum,

Silent as death,
Holding their breath;
Appall'd-

Like them of old, that crept

On the shorn Samson, while he slept,

In their barbarian power afraid

Of one-a woman had betray'd!

Or, like the pirate-band that stole
The sleeping God of wine;
Each, as he came, through all his soul,
Thrilling with awe divine,-

An armed multitude, to take
A giant by surprise :

Awake, anointed one, awake!
The awful sky

Is full of lamentation-all the air

With sweet, remote,

Low sounds, afloat

And solemn trumpeting and prayer.

And lo!

The waters of the mountain lake
O'ershadow'd by the flowery wood,

Tremble and shake

And change their hue
Of quiet blue,

As if they felt a spirit go

O'er their transparent solitude:

The great hills darken-all the valleys quake With one continual throe,

The

green earth is wet

With a fragrant sweat,

Like the fine small dew,

That filters through

Rich moss, by the foot subdued;
And the olive trees there

Their blossoms throw

On the motionless air,

Like a shower of snow,
Perpetually-

Trembling as if they felt the tread
Of the stout invisible dead-
The buried nations of all the earth-
All struggling upward into birth,
To subterranean melody:

And see! another band appear,
Unarm'd with helm, or sword, or spear,
Or buckler, guard, or shield;
A band of giants! on they go,
Each-by himself to meet the foe,
Alone in yonder field:

Three hundred Spartan shadows they,
I know them by their flying hair,
Rejoicing as it floats away,

A lustre on the troubled air:
Behold! they gather round

The marble Sleeper, where he lies
Reposing on the scented ground,—
His head with dripping roses bound-
A shadow in his eyes:

Behold them slowly trace,

With sorrow in each noble face,
The print of naked feet about the holy place:
Awake! awake!

Thou sleeping warrior-Bard! O break
Thy trance profound!

The Spartans are about thee-
They will not go without thee-
Awake!

They claim thee for the last
Of all that valiant race;
The Grecians of the past,-

To whom the battle and the chase,
The war-ship tumbling to the blast,
The stormy night,

The thunder and the fight,
Were pastime and repose?
Up, then, and take thy stand
Amid the shadowy band!
Outspread thy banner o'er them,
Go, as thou should'st, before them;
Hear thou their call,

Awake! and fall

Like the bright thunder on their foes!

On with thy helmet! set thy foot
Where'er thou art-

Strike down the infidel, and put

Thy mailed hand upon thy slumbering heart,
Or on the nearest altar, where,
Unstain'd with revel, blood, or wine,
Stands many an everlasting shrine,
Wrapp'd in perpetual cloud,
For ever echoing loud,

And sounding to the mountain air,
With voices wild, remote, and high,
Like fanes of ancient prophecy-
Built by the cherubim, of solid rock,
Into the broad blue heaven-to mock
The thunder and the Moslem shock-
The armies of the earth and sky!

Go up, thou Sleeper! go with loosen'd hair;

Go

up into the cloud, and then forbear

To join the awful interlude,

The wild and solemn harmony

Of that afflicted solitude,

Bard of the Ocean, if thou canst, in one eternal prayer!

What!

Still changing not,
Still motionless and pale,
And damp, and cold,
Unmoved by trumpet, prayer, or song,
The stirring gale,

Or noise of coming strife,

Or thunder near thee roll'd:

The nations that have known thee long
Unheeded marching by,

Where thou art lying;

The Spartan wise-the Spartan strong,
Scared women with their garments flying,
As if pursued

By some great multitude-
Young children all about thee crying,
And thou, alone,

Immoveable as if thy blood were turn'd to stone!
Why! what art thou,

Man of the solid brow;

O what!

To alter not,

Nor change, nor stir thyself, nor wake,
Though all the nations try to break
Thy trance profound!
Nay, though they altogether take
The place of supplication round
The silent spot,

The cold extinguished ground,
Where thou art now,
Until

Up from thy charmed slumber! break
Thy long and sorrowful trance!
Now! Now!
Advance!

Ye of the snowy brow,
Each in her overpowering splendor!
The young and great,
Superb and desolate,

The beautiful and tender!
Advance!

Ye shadows of his child and wife,
And thrill the sleeper into life!

Now heaven be thanked! he lies
Regardless of our cries.
Rejoice! Rejoice!

Children of Greece, rejoice!

No change nor trouble shall come again To the island-bard of the deep blue main; Nor blight nor blast

To overcast

The brightness of his name;
Rejoice! Rejoice!

All ye that have loved the man, rejoice,
Throughout the world!

He cannot, now,
From the precipice brow
Of Glory's hill be hurl'd?

And you, ye men of Greece,
For his heart is yours
While time endures-

A flame

That will burn eternally

And sound that will never cease!
And ye that have loved him, where
There's freedom in the air,

O peace!

For his beautiful eyes,

Under Grecian skies,

Were shut by the hands of Grecian men And the voice of his heart

Will never depart

Away from the land of the brave again: