Lines, Written At Athens In 1820 Poem by Joanna Baillie

'TIS now the fourth revolving age,
Since Hellas bow'd beneath the rage
Of Othman's stormy sway;
Whose deep'ning gloom and horror spread
Till all the light of life was fled,
And quench'd each mental ray.
Four ages beat the heavy shower,
And flash'd those forked bolts of power,
And howl'd that hollow blast;
Whate'er could bend, or blight, or chill,
Unnerve her frame, relax her will,
Redoubled fierce and fast,

Till suffering shed this alter'd hue
O'er features sad, yet sweet to view,
And blanch'd her blooming cheek.
Still, tears that gather dare not start,
Tho' sighs represt should burst her heart,
She lies despis'd and weak.
Have sages lived, and heroes died,
Hellas, to swell a Scythian's pride?
Not guilt, yet shame is thine.
I mark the Moslem mute and strong,
And must I hear the Athenian's song
O'er bowls of Zian wine,
Convivial threats, or plaintive strains,
When arms, if he would burst his chains,
Should strike,--not lips repine?
If liberty can e'er be bought
By words , let ancient wisdom's thought
Prepare young valour's deed;
Or, if ye will not wake the fires
That warm'd of yore your glorious sires,
And learn like them to bleed,
Imbibe the draught of moral health,
Collect and store the mental wealth,
The knowledge which is power;
Prepare, while slavery's stillness shows
The tempest brooding e'er it blows,--
Prepare to meet the hour.

For arms alone, imbrued in blood,
And fleets, that sweep the subject flood,
Ne'er made a nation great:
Fingers that wake the living lyre,
And tongues that Phoebus tips with fire
More nobly deck a state.
Of all, whom once the o'erflowing North,
Or Scythia pour'd in torrents forth,
What trace remains behind?
Are Gallia's sons, because they bled
To heap the groaning earth with dead,
Endear'd to human kind?
Renown, like this, the deadly skill
And burning thirst to curse and kill,
Is mere pre-eminence in ill;
But liberty defended well,
Where freemen fought, and tyrants fell,
Confers a right to fame.
Hellas! if virtue, once thy boast,
Has left for aye this rugged coast,
Assume some meaner name.
If not--awake!--From Corfu's height
To far Cythera, Freedom's light,
Hope's heavenly arch, is seen
Mingling its seven harmonious tints,
That pledge of moral sunshine prints,
Heaven's blue and ocean's green.

Clouded no more by mists of sorrow,
Those blended hues of beauty borrow
From Albion's sun their birth;
Amidst them smiles the rocky isle,
Where science turns a fostering smile,
Ithaca's sacred earth,
Now dear from Homer's magic name;
But soon from Græcia's orient fame
And liberty and worth.