To Make a New Thermopylae

The mountains look on marathon –

And marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream’d that greece might still be free;

For standing on the persian’s grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

Must we but weep o’er 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 thermopylae!

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.

Must we but weep o’er 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 thermopylae!

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!

Must we but weep o’er 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 thermopylae!