Greece Poem by Mary Anne Browne

The flowers still bloom in fair Ionia's isles ;
On Marathon the summer sun still smiles ;
The zephyr in the balmy evening breathes,
And sighs and whispers o'er fair flow'ry wreaths ;
The nightingale, from waving cypress boughs.
Pours to the blushing rose melodious vows ;-
But yet a something breathes throughout the scene,
That says, more lovely still it once hath been ; -

A something, like the sad dejected air
That hangs around fond beauty in despair.
Oh, Greece ! what is it makes thy present state
So beautiful, - and yet so desolate ?
Renders thy sons so servile and so weak,
And steals the rose from every daughter's cheek,
And makes thee-tho' so lovely-only seem
The fading image of some glorious dream ?

Yet why enquire ? I've but to look around,
To see thy sons in foreign fetters bound,
To see those once brave spirits now so tame,
Wounded and broken-Grecian but in name ;-
To see the gath'ring weeds that freely wave
Above the tomb of thy departed brave ;-
To see the ivy that uncultur'd twines
Around thy ruin'd fanes, and mouldering shrines ;-
To look on temples, time had spared, defaced
By ruthless hands, and by the Turk laid waste ;-
These to the question silently reply,
For but one glance thrown o'er them,-' Tyranny !'

And it is so.- Upon thy Marathon,
Where once thy valour nobly, proudly, shone,
Now the insulting Moslem casts his chain,
And thy sons crouch submissive to his reign.
And where is Sparta ?-Where is Sparta's King
Low in the dust they both are mouldering.
Nought but her ruins stand, - and the wild grass
Grows o'er the grave of her Leonidas.
And Athens too, where fair Minerva reign'd
Where eloquent Demosthenes enchain'd
The list'ning ear,-where glorious Phocion spoke ;-
Is she too sunk beneath the oppressor's yoke?
No-not quite fall'n: but ah, how sadly changed
By Moslem feet her marble pavement ranged :-
Her heroes and her orators are gone
And there insensibly she moulders on.

Departed days of grandeur and of bliss !
Are ye and all your greatness come to this ?
Rise ! rise, ye Grecians ! burst the servile yoke,
And break your fetters, as your fathers broke.

Oh think upon your sires' 'Thermopylae ;-
And make a glorious effort to be free !'
Oh, Grecia ! cease beneath thy foes to weep ;-
Thy spirits are not dead-they only sleep ;
And they will rise and wipe away thy tears,
And Liberty will reign thro' future years.
Yes !-they will rouse themselves, and every nerve
Be strain'd to crush the tyrants that they serve ;
And thou shalt break, at length thy galling chain,
Shake off those tyrants,-and be Greece again !