Leonidas

Shout for the mighty men
Who died along this shore —
Who died within this mountain glen!
For never nobler chieftain's head
Was laid on Valour's crimson bed,
Nor ever prouder gore
Sprang forth, than theirs who won the day
Upon thy strand, Thermopylae!

Shout for the mighty men
Who on the Persian tents,
Like lions from their midnight den,
Bounding on the slumbering deer,
Rush'd — a storm of sword and spear;
Like the roused elements,
Let loose from an immortal hand,
To chasten or to crush a land!

But there are none to hear;
Greece is a hopeless slave.
Leonidas! no hand is near
To lift thy fiery falchion now;
No warrior makes the warrior's vow
Upon thy sea-wash'd grave.
The voice that should be raised by men,
Must now be given by wave and glen.

And it is given! — the surge —
The tree — the rock — the sand —
On Freedom's kneeling spirit urge,
In sounds that speak but to the free,
The memory of thine and thee!
The vision of thy band
Still gleams within the glorious dell,
Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell!

And is thy grandeur done?
Mother of men like these!
Has not thy outcry gone,
Where Justice has an ear to hear? —
Be holy! God shall guide thy spear;
Till in thy crimson'd seas
Are plunged the chain and scimitar,
Greece shall be a new-born Star!