Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 7.djvu/121

Rh 3.

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some Volcanic isle;

No torch is kindled at its blaze—

A funeral pile.

4.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain

And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

5.

But 't is not thus—and 't is not here—

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now

Where Glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

6.

The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,

Glory and Greece, around me see!

The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

7.

Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)

Awake, my spirit! Think through whom