OF THE SPANISH PATRIOTS.

81

Glory to them that die in this great cause!

Kings, Bigots, can inflict no brand of shame,

Or shape of death, to shroud them from applause :—
No!-manglers of the martyr's earthly frame!
Your hangmen-fingers cannot touch his fame.

Still in your prostrate land there shall be some
Proud hearts, the shrines of Freedom's vestal flame.

Long trains of ill may pass unheeded, dumb,

But vengeance is behind, and justice is to come.

G

LINES

INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT LATELY FINISHED

BY MR. CHANTREY,

WHICH HAS BEEN ERECTED BY THE WIDOW OF

ADMIRAL SIR G. CAMPBELL, K. C. B. TO

THE MEMORY OF HER HUSBAND.

To him, whose loyal, brave, and gentle heart
Fulfill'd the hero's and the patriot's part,—
Whose charity, like that which Paul enjoin'd,
Was warm, beneficent, and unconfined,—

This stone is rear'd: to public duty true,

The seaman's friend, the father of his crew-
Mild in reproof, sagacious in command,

He spread fraternal zeal throughout his band,
And led each arm to act, each heart to feel,
What British valour owes to Britain's weal.

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF SIR G. CAMPBELL.

883

These were his public virtues :-but to trace
His private life's fair purity and grace,

To paint the traits that drew affection strong
From friends, an ample and an ardent throng,
And, more, to speak his memory's grateful claim
On her who mourns him most, and bears his name-
O'ercomes the trembling hand of widow'd grief,

O'ercomes the heart, unconscious of relief,

Save in religion's high and holy trust,

Whilst placing their memorial o'er his dust.

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

AGAIN to the battle, Achaians!

Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance;

Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree

It has been, and shall yet be the land of the free:

For the cross of our faith is replanted,

The pale dying crescent is daunted,

And we march that the foot-prints of Mahomet's slaves

May be wash'd out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us,

And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succour advances,

Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances

Are stretch'd in our aid-be the combat our own!

And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone:
For we've sworn, by our Country's assaulters,
By the virgins they've dragg'd from our altars,
By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,
By our heroes of old and their blood in our veins,
That living, we shall be victorious,

Or that dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not;

The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid,

And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide-waves engulph-fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: