Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/145

Rh True,—we can glow at Homer's lay, Enraptured hang o'er Pindar's lyre, Start at thy pencil's deathless ray, Thy breathing marble's force admire, At awful Marathon can list To catch the Persian's tone of shame, At proud Thermopylæ assist To bind the immortal wreath of fame; But when from slaughter'd Scio speeds The Moslem curse, the helpless cry, The echo of unutter'd deeds,— We tax our pity with a sigh! Oh Ye! who saw the mighty yield On Saratoga's laurell'd plain Or bade on Monmouth's fervid field Your wounded bosoms flow like rain,— Rise!—though your wasted locks be gray, Though chill'd with want your last retreat, Lift high the wither'd hand, and say How strong your kindred pulses beat,— Rise!—tell your sons what generous pain, What warm, indignant zeal revives, When 'gainst oppression's wreathed chain The crush'd, yet lofty spirit strives;— And tell their cradled babes the tale,— How oft to wrest the tyrant's rod Do Liberty and Truth prevail Clad in the panoply of God,— Then, ere the holy tear shall cease To dew their cheek like rose-bud fair, Devoutly stamp the name of Greece Deep, on their unpolluted prayer.