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 Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

What, silent still? and silent all?
 * Ah! no: the voices of the dead

Sound like a distant torrent's fall,
 * And answer, 'Let one living head,

But one arise,—we come, we come!' 'Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain—in vain: strike other chords;
 * Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
 * And shed the blood of Scio's vine!

Hark! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet;
 * Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?

Of two such lessons, why forget
 * The nobler and the manlier one?

You have the letters Cadmus gave; Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
 * We will not think of themes like these!

It made Anacreon's song divine:
 * He served but served Polycrates:

A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese
 * Was freedom's best and bravest friend;

That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend