Sounion

But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marble 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.' End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

This recording is in the public domain.

the isles of greece the isles of greece where burning sappho loved and sung where grew the arts of war and peace where delos rose and phoebus sprung eternal summer gilds them yet but all except their sun is set the scion and the teian muse the hero's harp the lover's lute have found the fame your shores refuse their place of birth alone is mute to sounds which echo further west than your sire's islands of the blest the mountains look on marathon and marathon looks on the sea and musing there an hour alone i dreamed that greece might still be free for standing on the persian's grave i could not deem myself a slave a king sate on the rocky brow which looks o'er sea-born salamis and ships by thousands lay below and men in nations all were his he counted them at break of day and when the sun set where were they and where are they and where art thou my country on thy voiceless shore the heroic lay is tuneless now the heroic bosom beats no more and must thy lyre so long divine degenerate into hands like mine tis something in the dearth of fame though linked among a fettered race to feel at least a patriot shame even as i sing suffuse my face for what is left the poet here for greeks a blush for greece a tear must we but weep or days more blest must we but blush our fathers bled earth render back from out thy breast a remnant of our spartan dead of the three hundred grant but three to make a new thermopoly what silent still and silent all ah no the voices of the dead sound like a distant torrent's fall and answer let one living head but one arise we come we come tis but the living who are dumb in vain in vain strike other chords fill high the cup with samian wine leave battles to the turkish hordes and shed the blood of sio's vine hark rising to the ignoble call how answers each bold bacchanal you have the pyrrhic dance as yet where is the pyrrhic phalanx gone of two such lessons why forget the nobler and the manlier one you have the letters cadmus gave think ye he meant them for a slave fill high the bowl with samian wine we will not think of themes like these it made anacreon's song divine he served but served polycrates a tyrant but our masters then were still at least our countrymen the tyrant of the chersonese was freedom's best and bravest friend that tyrant was miltiades oh that the present hour would lend another despot of the kind such chains as his were sure to bind fill high the bowl with samian wine on sully's rock and parga's shore 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 shield however broad fill high the bowl with samian wine our virgins dance beneath the shade i see their glorious black eyes shine but gazing on each glowing maid my own the burning tear-drop laves to think such breasts 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.

Ho and Lyndon by Thomas Campbell.

This recording is in the public domain.

the isles of greece the isles of greece where burning sappho loved and sung where grew the arts of war and peace where delos rose and phoebus sprung eternal summer gilds them yet but all except their sun is set the scion and the teian muse the hero's harp the lover's lute have found the fame your shores refuse their place of birth alone is mute to sounds which echo further west than your sire's islands of the blest the mountains look on marathon and marathon looks on the sea and musing there an hour alone i dreamed that greece might still be free for standing on the persian's grave i could not deem myself a slave a king sate on the rocky brow which looks o'er sea-born salamis and ships by thousands lay below and men in nations all were his he counted them at break of day and when the sun set where were they and where are they and where art thou my country on thy voiceless shore the heroic lay is tuneless now the heroic bosom beats no more and must thy lyre so long divine degenerate into hands like mine tis something in the dearth of fame though linked among a fettered race to feel at least a patriot shame even as i sing suffuse my face for what is left the poet here for greeks a blush for greece a tear must we but weep or days more blest must we but blush our fathers bled earth render back from out thy breast a remnant of our spartan dead of the three hundred grant but three to make a new thermopoly what silent still and silent all ah no the voices of the dead sound like a distant torrent's fall and answer let one living head but one arise we come we come tis but the living who are dumb in vain in vain strike other chords fill high the cup with samian wine leave battles to the turkish hordes and shed the blood of sio's vine hark rising to the ignoble call how answers each bold bacchanal you have the pyrrhic dance as yet where is the pyrrhic phalanx gone of two such lessons why forget the nobler and the manlier one you have the letters cadmus gave think ye he meant them for a slave fill high the bowl with samian wine we will not think of themes like these it made anacreon's song divine he served but served polycrates a tyrant but our masters then were still at least our countrymen the tyrant of the chersonese was freedom's best and bravest friend that tyrant was miltiades oh that the present hour would lend another despot of the kind such chains as his were sure to bind fill high the bowl with samian wine on sully's rock and parga's shore 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 shield however broad fill high the bowl with samian wine our virgins dance beneath the shade i see their glorious black eyes shine but gazing on each glowing maid my own the burning tear-drop laves to think such breasts 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 Ho and Lyndon by Thomas Campbell.

Read for LibriVox.org. on linden when the sun was low all bloodless lay th untrodden snow and dark as winter was the flow of iser rolling rapidly but linden saw another sight when the drum beat at dead of night commanding fires of death to light the darkness of her scenery by torch and trumpet fast arrayed each horseman drew his battle-blade and furious every charger neighed to join the dreadful revelry then shook the hills with thunder riven then rushed the steed to battle driven and louder than the bolts of heaven far flashed the red artillery but redder yet that light shall glow on linden's hills of stained snow and bloodier yet the torrent flow of eiser rolling rapidly tis morn but scarce yon level sun can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun where furious frank and fiery hun shout in their sulphurous canopy the combat deepens on ye brave who rush to glory o'er the grave wave munich all thy banners wave and charge with all thy chivalry Few, few shall part where many meet.

The snow shall be their winding sheet.