一
嗟汝希腊之群岛兮，
实文教武术之所肇始。
诗媛沙浮尝咏歌于斯兮，
亦羲和素娥之故里。
今惟长夏之骄阳兮，
纷灿烂其如初。
我徘徊以忧伤兮，
哀旧烈之无余！
二
悠悠兮，我何所思？
荷马兮阿难。
慷慨兮歌英雄，
缠绵兮叙幽欢。
享盛名于万代兮，
独岑寂于斯土；
大声起乎仙岛之西兮，
何此邦之无语。
三
马拉顿后兮山高，
马拉顿前兮海号。
哀时词客独来游兮，
犹梦希腊终自主也；
指波斯京观以为正兮，
吾安能奴僇以终古也！
四
彼高崖何巉岩兮，
俯视沙拉米之滨；
有名王尝踞坐其巅兮，
临大海而点兵。
千樯兮照海，
列舰兮百里。
朝点兵兮，何纷纷兮，
日之入兮，无复存兮！
五
故国兮，汝魂何之？
侠子之歌，久销歇兮，
英雄之血，难再热兮，
古诗人兮，高且洁兮；
琴荒瑟老，臣精竭兮。
六
虽举族今奴虏兮，
岂无遗风之犹在？
吾慨慷以悲歌兮，
耿忧国之磈磊。
吾惟余頳颜为希人羞兮，
吾惟有泪为希腊洒。
七
徒愧赧曾何益兮，
嗟雪涕之计拙；
独不念我先人兮，
为自由而流血？
吾欲诉天阍兮，
还我斯巴达之三百英魂兮！
尚令百一存兮，
以再造我瘦马披离之关兮！
八
沉沉希腊，犹无声兮；
惟闻鬼语，作潮鸣兮。
鬼曰：“但令生者一人起兮，
吾曹虽死，终阴相尔兮！”
呜咽兮鬼歌，
生者之喑兮奈鬼何！
九
吾哓哓兮终徒然！
已矣兮何言！
且为君兮弹别曲，
注美酒兮盈尊！
姑坐视突厥之跋扈兮，
听其宰割吾胞与兮，
君不闻门外之箫鼓兮，
且赴此贝凯之舞兮！
十
汝犹能霹雳之舞兮，
霹雳之阵今何许兮？
舞之靡靡犹不可忘兮，
奈何独忘阵之堂堂兮？
独不念先人佉摩之书兮，
宁以遗汝庸奴兮？
十一
怀古兮徒烦冤，
注美酒兮盈尊！
一醉兮百忧泯！
阿难醉兮歌有神。
阿难盖代诗人兮，
信尝事暴君兮；
虽暴君兮，
犹吾同种之人兮。
十二
吾所思兮，
米尔低兮，
武且休兮，
保我自由兮。
吾抚昔而涕淋浪兮，
遗风谁其嗣昌？
诚能再造我家邦兮，
虽暴主其何伤？
十三
注美酒兮盈杯，
悠悠兮吾怀！
汤汤兮白阶之岸，
崔巍兮修里之崖，
吾陀离之民族兮，
实肇生于其间；
或犹有自由之种兮，
历百劫而未残。
十四
法兰之人，乌可托兮，
其王贪狡，水可度兮。
所可托兮，希腊之刀；
所可任兮，希腊之豪。
突厥“忄票”兮，
拉丁狡兮，
虽吾盾之坚兮，
吾何以自全兮？
十五
注美酒兮盈杯！
美人舞兮低徊！
眼波兮盈盈，
一顾兮倾城；
对彼美兮，
泪下不能已兮；
子兮子兮，
胡为生儿为奴婢兮！
十六
置我乎须宁之岩兮，
狎波涛而与为伍；
且行吟以悲啸兮，
惟潮声与对语；
如鸿鹄之逍遥兮，
吾将于是老死：
奴隶之国非吾土兮，—
碎此杯以自矢！
the isles of greece
the isles of greece! the isles of greece!
where burning sappho loved and sung,
where grew the arts of war and peace,---
where delos rose and phoebus sprung!
eternal summer gilds them yet,
but all, except their sun, is set.
the scian and the teian muse,
the hero's harp, the lover's lute,
have found the fame your shores refuse;
their place of birth alone is mute
to sounds which echo further west
than your sires' "islands of the blest."
the mountains look on marathon---
and marathon looks on the sea;
and musing there an hour alone,
i dream'd that greece might yet be free
for, standing on the persians' grave,
i could not deem myself a slave.
a king sat on the rocky brow
which looks on sea-born salamis;
and ships, by thousands, lay below,
and men in nations;---all were his!
he counted them at break of day---
and when the sun set, where were they?
and where are they? and where art thou,
my country? on thy voiceless shore
the heroic lay is tuneless now---
the heroic bosom beats no more!
and must thy lyre, so long divine,
degenerate into hands like mine?
'tis something, in the dearth of fame,
though link'd among a fetter'd race,
to feel at least a patriot's shame,
even as i sing, suffuse my face;
for what is left the poet here?
for greeks a blush---for greece a tear.
must we but weep o'er days more blest?
must we but blush?---our fathers bled.
earth! render back from out thy breast
a remnant of our spartan dead!
of the three hundred grant but three,
to make a new thermopylae.
what, silent still, and silent all?
ah! no; the voices of the dead
sound like a distant torrent's fall,
and answer, "let one living head,
but one arise,---we come, we come!"
'tis but the living who are dumb.
in vain---in vain: strike other chords;
fill high the cup of samian wine!
leave battles to the turkish hordes,
and shed the blood of scio's vine!
hark! rising to the ignoble call---
how answers each bold bacchanal!
you have the pyrrhic dance as yet,
where is the pyrrhic phalanx gone?
of two such lessons, why forget
the nobler and the manlier one?
you have the letters cadmus gave---
think ye he meant them for a slave?
fill high the bowl with samian wine!
we will not think of themes like these!
it made anacreon's song divine;
he served---but served polycrates---
a tyrant; but our masters then
were still, at least, our countrymen.
the tyrant of the chersonese
was freedom's best and bravest friend;
that tyrant was miltiades!
oh! that the present hour would lend
another despot of the kind!
such chains as his were sure to bind.
fill high the bowl with samian wine!
on suli's rock, and parga's shore,
exists the remnant of a line
such as the doric mothers bore;
and there, perhaps, some seed is sown,
the heracleidan blood might own.
trust not for freedom to the franks---
they have a king who buys and sells:
in native swords and native ranks,
the only hope of courage dwells:
but turkish force and latin fraud
would break your shield, however broad.
fill high the bowl with samian wine!
our virgins dance beneath the shade---
i see their glorious black eyes shine;
but, gazing on each glowing maid,
my own the burning tear-drop laves,
to think such breasts must suckle slaves.
place me on sunium's marble steep---
where nothing, save the waves and i,
may hear our mutual murmurs sweep:
there, swan-like, let me sing and die;
a land of slaves shall ne'er be mine---
dash down yon cup of samian wine!