’T is time this heart should be unmoved, Since
others it hath ceased to move: Yet,
though I cannot be beloved, Still
let me love! My
days are in the yellow leaf; The
flowers and fruits of Love are gone; The
worm, the canker, and the grief Are
mine alone! The
fire that on my bosom preys Is
lone as some Volcanic isles; No
torch is kindled at its blaze – A
funeral pile. The
hope, the fear, the zealous care, The
exalted portion of the pain And
power of love, I cannot share, But
wear the chain. But
’t is not thus – and ’t is not here – Such
thoughts should take my soul, nor now Where
Glory decks the hero’s bier, Or
binds his brow. The
Sword, the Banner, and the Field, Glory
and Greece, around me see! The
Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was
not more free. Awake!
(not Greece – she is awake!) Awake,
my spirit! Think through whom Thy
life-blood tracks its parent lake, And
then strike home! Tread
those reviving passions down, Unworthy
manhood! – unto thee Indifferent
should the smile or frown Of
Beauty be. If
thou regret’s thy youth, why live? The
land of honourable death Is
here: – up to the Field, and give Away
thy breath! Seek
out – less often sought than found – A
soldier’s grave, for thee the best; Then
look around, and choose thy ground, And
take thy Rest. Missolonghi, January 22, 1824 |
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