The Song Of Triumph Of The Greeks, Off Tenedos, After The Night Of The 10th Of November, 1822 Poem by Joanna Baillie

THE Monarchs of Europe, who prattle of peace,
Shall cease, from this night, to calumniate Greece,
The Moslems repent that they roused her to ire,
And shrink, as their forefathers shrunk, from her fire.
Did they deem their volcano of iron and oak
Breathed thunder and lightning, or rattle and smoke?
That Leviathan floated in slumber like death,
For our Galiongees were her life and her breath.

Tho' she spread, like the roc, her white wings to the wind,
Yet 'the hares of the islands' would leave her behind;
Tho' she pour'd, like the Hydra, from sulphurous throats,
A hailstorm of iron, it touch'd not our boats.

Psynots, Spezzians, and Hydriotes, nursed on the waves,
Beat Rumeli's gardeners and Tripoli's slaves;
They are careless to live, we are ready to die,
And their hearts are benumb'd, while our pulses beat high.
Bostangis (guards of the Sultan), literally gardeners, embarked in the scarcity of seamen.
This Chesme is Grecian--the eagle no more
Spreads imperial wings o'er Anadoli's shore;
But the daughter of freedom has answered our cry,
And her parent--? we gaze where yon bright streamers fly.

Can those bosoms of Britain be cold to the glow,
Which we feel now our country has struck the death blow?
Ah! no--from their mast see our banner unfurl'd,
With the flag that protected and rescued the world.
Then scorn'd be the tale which the Scythian has told,
That Britannia alone would be selfish and cold;
Her Ionian beacon, no Pharos to save,
But a death-light that hovers o'er Liberty's grave.

Oh! blest be the morn's breath, and that glow o'er the skies,
Which heralds the day--Sun of glory, arise!
Tho' we shrunk, while enslaved, as in shame from thy light,
Now thy beams cannot glitter too gloriously bright
On the wrecks of the Moslem which float down the tide,
On Græcia's deliverance, and vengeance, and pride;--
Yet, oh God of our fathers, if Græcia is free,
Be the blessing to us, but the glory to Thee!