File:The Cambridge book of poetry and song (1882) (14593611498).jpg

Identifier: cambridgebookofp00rog (find matches)
Title: The Cambridge book of poetry and song
Year: 1882 (1880s)
Authors: Rogé, Mme. Charlotte Fiske (Bates) 1838- ed. (from old catalog)
Subjects: English poetry American poetry
Publisher: New York, T. Y. Crowell & co
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: Sloan Foundation

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ffuse my face;For what is left the poet here ?For Greeks a blush — for Greece atear. ,Must loe but weep oer days moreblest ?Must we but blush ? — Our fathersbled.Earth! render back from out thybreastA remnant of our Spartan dead!Of the three hundred grant but three.To make a new Thermopylaj! What, silent still ? and silent all ? Ah! no; — the voices of the deadSound like a distant torrents 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 otherchords;Fill high the cup with Samianwine!Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,And shed the blood of Scios vine!Hark! rising to the ignoble call —How answers each bold Bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet.Where is the Pyrrhic phalanxgone? Of two such lessons, why forgetThe 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 likethese!
Text Appearing After Image:
THE ISLES OF GREECE. Page It made Anacreons song divine:He served — but served Poly-crates —A tyrant; but our masters thenWere still, at least, our countrymen. The tyrant of the ChersoneseWas freedoms best and bravestfriend;That tyrant was Miltiades!Oh! that the present hour wouldlendAnother despot of the kind!Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samianwine!On Sulis rock, and Pargas shore.Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore;And there, perliaps, some seed is sown.The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks —They have a king who buys andsells;In native swords, and native ranks,The only hope of courage dwells:But Turkisli force and Latin fraudWould break your shield, howeverbroad. Fill high the bowl with Samianwine!Our virgins dance beneath theshade —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 suckleslaves. Place me on S

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