The Bowl Of Liberty.[247]

Before the fiery sun-- The sun that looks on Greece with cloudless eye, In the free air, and on the war-field won-- Our fathers crown’d the Bowl of Liberty.

Amidst the tombs they stood, The tombs of heroes! with the solemn skies, And the wide plain around, where patriot-blood Had steep’d the soil in hues of sacrifice.

They call’d the glorious dead, In the strong faith which brings the viewless nigh, And pour’d rich odours o’er their battle-bed, And bade them to their rite of Liberty.

They call’d them from the shades-- The golden-fruited shades, where minstrels tell How softer light th’ immortal clime pervades, And music floats o’er meads of asphodel.

Then fast the bright-red wine Flow’d to their names who taught the world to die, And made the land’s green turf a living shrine, Meet for the wreath and Bowl of Liberty.

So the rejoicing earth Took from her vines again the blood she gave, And richer flowers to deck the tomb drew birth From the free soil, thus hallow’d to the brave.

We have the battle-fields, The tombs, the names, the blue majestic sky, We have the founts the purple vintage yields; --When shall we crown the Bowl of Liberty?

This and the following piece appeared originally in the New Monthly Magazine.

For an account of this ceremony, anciently performed in commemoration of the battle of Platæa, see Potter’s Antiquities of Greece, vol. i. p. 389.

THE VOICE OF SCIO.

A voice from Scio’s isle-- A voice of song, a voice of old Swept far as cloud or billow roll’d, And earth was hush’d the while--

The souls of nations woke! Where lies the land whose hills among That voice of victory hath not rung, As if a trumpet spoke?

To sky, and sea, and shore, Of those whose blood on Ilion’s plain Swept from the rivers to the main, A glorious tale it bore.

Still by our sun-bright deep, With all the fame that fiery lay Threw round them, in its rushing way, The sons of battle sleep.

And kings their turf have crown’d! And pilgrims o’er the foaming wave Brought garlands there: so rest the brave, Who thus their bard have found!

A voice from Scio’s isle, A voice as deep hath risen again; As far shall peal its thrilling strain, Where’er our sun may smile!

Let not its tones expire! Such power to waken earth and heaven, And might and vengeance, ne’er was given To mortal song or lyre!

Know ye not whence it comes? --From ruin’d hearths, from burning fanes, From kindred blood on yon red plains, From desolated homes!

’Tis with us through the night! ’Tis on our hills, ’tis in our sky-- Hear it, ye heavens! when swords flash high O’er the mid-waves of fight!