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And it is given ! the surge

The tree—the rock-the sandOn freedom's kneeling spirit urge, In sounds that speak but to the free, The memory of thine and thee!

The vision of thy band Still gleams within the glorious dell, Where their gore hallow'd, as it fell !

And is thy grandeur done?

Mother of men like these! Has not thy outcry gone Where Justice has an ear to hear ? Be holy! God shall guide thy spear;

Till in thy crimson'd seas Are plunged the chain and scimitar, GREECE shall be a new-born star !


It was the wild midnight,

A storm was on the sky;
The lightning gave its light,

And the thunder echoed by.

The torrent swept the glen,

The ocean lash'd the shore;
Then rose the Spartan men,

To make their bed in gore !

Swift from the deluged ground

Three hundred took the shield; Then, silent, gather'd round

The leader of the field.

He spoke no warrior-word,

He bade no trumpet blow; But the signal thunder roar'd,

And they rush'd upon the foe.

The fiery element

Show'd, with one mighty gleam, Rampart, and flag, and tent,

Like the spectres of a dream.

All up the mountain side,

All down the woody vale, All by the rolling tide

Waved the Persian banners pale.

And King Leonidas,

Among the slumbering band, Sprang foremost from the pass,

Like the lightning's living brand.

Then double darkness fell,

And the forest ceased its moan; But there came a clash of steel,

And a distant, dying groan.

Anon, a trumpet blew,

And a fiery sheet burst high, That o'er the midnight threw

A blood-red canopy.

A host glared on the hill,

A host glared by the bay; But the Greeks rush'd onwards still,

Like leopards in their play.

The air was all a yell,

And the earth was all a flame, Where the Spartan's bloody steel

On the silken turbans came.

And still the Greek rush'd on

Beneath the fiery fold, Till, like a rising sun,

Shone Xerxes' tent of gold.

They found a royal feast,

His midnight banquet, there ! And the treasures of the east

Lay beneath the Doric spear.

Then sat to the repast

The bravest of the brave ! That feast must be their last,

That spot must be their grave.

They pledged old Sparta's name

In cups of Syrian wine, And the warrior's deathless fame Was sung

in strains divine.

They took the rose-wreath'd lyres

From eunuch and from slave; And taught the languid wires

The sounds that freedom gave.

But now the morning star

Crown'd Eta's twilight brow: And the Persian horn of war

From the hills began to blow.

Up rose the glorious rank,

To Greece one cup pour’d high, Then, hand in hand, they drank

“ To Immortality!"

Fear on King Xerxes fell,

When, like spirits from the tomb, With shout and trumpet-knell,

He saw the warriors come.

But down swept all his power,

With chariot and with charge; Down pour'd the arrowy shower,

Till sank the Dorian's targe.

They march'd within the tent,

With all their strength unstrung ; To Greece one look they sent,

Then on high their torches flung.

To heaven the blaze uprollid,

Like a mighty altar-fire; And the Persians'


and gold Were the Grecians' funeral pyre.

Their king sat on the throne,

His captains by his side,While the flame rush'd roaring on, And their


loud replied !

Thus fought the Greek of old,

Thus will he fight again! Shall not the selfsame mould

Bring forth the selfsame men?

CHARLES WOLFE was born in Dublin, on the 14th of December, 1791. He received his early education at a school in Winchester: his classical attainments distinguished him when very young ;

and on entering, in 1809, the University of his native city, he had already given proofs of the genius which, although perceived and appreciated by all who knew hin, was unhappily known to the world only when death had removed him alike from censure and praise. In College he soon became remarkable ; obtained a scholarship; gained several prizes, and attracted general attention as one of the most promising young men of the time. His mind, however, appears to have been reflective rather than energetic; and when the chief excitements to distinction ceased to influence him, he preferred the easy life of a country curate to the continued struggle for academic fame. It is said, however, that his ambitious hopes were chilled by the unfavourable result of a deep attachment: one of his friends writes, that "it pressed upon both mind and body; until this unfortunate epoch of his life, he had been in the enjoyment of robust health,—but the sickness at his heart soon communicated itself to his whole frame. Even his general deportment was quite altered.” He settled in an obscure corner of Tyrone County, and was afterwards removed to the curacy of Castle Caulfield, in the diocese of Armagh:-his duties were dis. charged with unremitting zeal; and he succeeded in obtaining the affection as well as the respect of his parishioners. In the spring of 1821, symptoms of consumption made their appearance, and he was at length induced by his friends to remove from his parish, and commence a search after health in more genial climates. For a short time he resided in Devonshire, and afterwards at Bourdeaux. His restoration to health was but temporary. • The fatal disease,” writes his amiable and excellent biographer, Mr. Russell, “which had been long apprehended, proved to have taken full hold of his constitution. The bounding step which expressed a constant buoyancy of mind, became slow and feeble : his robust and upright figure began to droop; his marked and prominent features acquired a sharpness of form; and his complexion, naturally fair, assumed the pallid cast of wasting disease.” He died at the Cove of Cork, on the 21st of February, 1823.

While at College, Mr. Wolfe wrote the Poem, which has, per

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