are Romans! 
  Why, in that elder day, to be a Roman
  Was greater than a king!  And once again—­
  Hear me, ye walls, that echoed to the tread
  Of either Brutus!—­once again, I swear,
  The eternal city shall be free; her sons shall walk with princes.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

* * * * *

FALLEN GREECE.

FROM “THE GIAOUR.”

  Clime of the unforgotten brave! 
  Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave,
  Was Freedom’s home or Glory’s grave! 
  Shrine of the mighty! can it be
  That this is all remains of thee? 
  Approach, thou craven, crouching slave;
    Say, is not this Thermopylae? 
  These waters blue that round you lave,
    O servile offspring of the free,—­
  Pronounce what sea, what shore is this? 
  The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 
  These scenes, their story not unknown,
  Arise, and make again your own;
  Snatch from the ashes of your sires
  The embers of their former fires;
  And he who in the strife expires
  Will add to theirs a name of fear
  That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
  And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
  They too will rather die than shame;
  For Freedom’s battle once begun,
  Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
  Though baffled oft is ever won. 
  Hear witness, Greece, thy living page;
  Attest it, many a deathless age: 
  While kings, in dusty darkness hid,
  Have left a nameless pyramid,
  Thy heroes, though the general doom
  Hath swept the column from their tomb,
  A mightier monument command,
  The mountains of their native land! 
  There points thy Muse to stranger’s eye
  The graves of those that cannot die! 
  ’Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
  Each step from splendor to disgrace: 
  Enough,—­no foreign foe could quell
  Thy soul, till from itself it fell;
  Yes! self-abasement paved the way
  To villain-bonds and despot sway.

  What can he tell who treads thy shore? 
    No legend of thine olden time,
  No theme on which the Muse might soar,
  High as thine own in days of yore,
    When man was worthy of thy clime. 
  The hearts within thy valleys bred,
  The fiery souls that might have led
    Thy sons to deeds sublime,
  Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
  Slaves—­nay, the bondsmen of a slave,
    And callous save to crime.

LORD BYRON.

* * * * *

GREECE ENSLAVED.

FROM “CHILDE HAROLD” CANTO II.

    Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 
    Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! 
    Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth,
    And long-accustomed bondage uncreate? 
    Not such thy sons who whilom