Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/51

Rh O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylæ! He loved you well—ay, not alone in word, Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword, Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon:


 * And England, too, shall glory in her son,

Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight. No longer now shall Slander's venomed spite Crawl like a snake across his perfect name, Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.


 * For as the olive-garland of the race

Which lights with joy each eager runner's face, As the red cross which saveth men in war, As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea,— Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!


 * Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green:

Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee, In hidden glades by lonely Castaly; The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine, And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.