Lyra Heroica Part 25

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

On Suli's rock and Parga's sh.o.r.e Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your s.h.i.+eld, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!

Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes s.h.i.+ne; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such b.r.e.a.s.t.s must suckle slaves.

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!

_Byron._

LXXVIII

HAIL AND FAREWELL

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze-- A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here, Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor _now_ Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see!

The Spartan borne upon his s.h.i.+eld Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece--she _is_ awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through _whom_ Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home!

Tread those reviving pa.s.sions down, Unworthy manhood! unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, _why live?_ The lad of honourable death Is here: up to the field, and give Away thy breath!

Seek out--less often sought than found-- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest.

_Byron._

LXXIX

AFTER CORUNNA

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- But we left him alone with his glory.

_Wolfe._

Lx.x.x

THE OLD NAVY

The captain stood on the carronade: 'First lieutenant,' says he, 'Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me; I haven't the gift of the gab, my sons--because I'm bred to the sea; That s.h.i.+p there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--but I've gained the victory!

That s.h.i.+p there is a Frenchman, and if we don't take _she_, 'Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture _we_; I haven't the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun; If she's not mine in half an hour, I'll flog each mother's son.

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory!'

We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough; 'I little thought,' said he, 'that your men were of such stuff'; Our captain took the Frenchman's sword, a low bow made to _he_; 'I haven't the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be.

And odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I've been to sea, I've fought 'gainst every odds--and I've gained the victory!'

Our captain sent for all of us: 'My merry men,' said he, 'I haven't the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be.

You've done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn't, you villains, as sure as day, I'd have flogged each mother's son.

For odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I'm at sea, I'll fight 'gainst every odds--and I'll gain the victory!'

_Marryat._

Lx.x.xI

CASABIANCA