9. I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; He neither must know who would serve the vizier: 10. Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, d Let the yellow-hair'd' Giaours view his horse-tail with dread; When his Delhis com.e dashing in blood o'er the banks, How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks! 11. Selictar! unsheath then our chief's scimitar: LXXIII. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 33 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 'Infidel. Horse-tails are the insignia of a Pacha. Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. LXXIV. Spirit of freedom! when on Phyle's brow 34 · Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmann'd. LXXV. eye, In all, save form alone, how changed! and who Or tear their name defiled from slavery's mournful page. LXXVI. Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; And the serai's impenetrable tower 35 Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 3 Or Wahab's rebel brood who dared divest The 36 prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth-ere lenten days begin, LXXIX. And whose more rife with merriment than thine, Oh Stamboul! once the empress of their reign? Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : (Alas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, All felt the common joy they now must feign, Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. LXXX. Loud was the lightsome tumult of the shore, Oft music changed, but never ceased her tone, And timely echo'd back the measured oar, And rippling waters made a pleasant moan: The queen of tides on high consenting shone, And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, A brighter glance her form reflected gave, Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. LXXXI. Glanced many a light caique along the foam, LXXXII. of ill! But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud! LXXXIII. This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: Ah! Greece! they love thee least who owe thee most; Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde! LXXXIV. When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, |