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 170 BYRON

Another despot of the kind !

Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks They have a king who buys and sells;

In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells :

But Turkish force and Latin fraud

Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !

Our virgins dance beneath the shade I see their glorious black eyes shine;

But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing save the waves and I

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die:

A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine !

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