Greek Air

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurst her olive bough With hands by tyrant power unchained; And braided for the muse's brow A wreath by tyrant touch unstained. When heroes trod each classic field Where coward feet now faintly falter; When every arm was Freedom's shield, And every heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valor's fever at the sound. See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: A conqueror oft--a hero never-- Yet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.-- There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, And fill each little angel eye With speaking tears, that ask him why He wandered from his hut for scenes like these. Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes that looked for blood before Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.