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TO MAKE A NEW THERMOPYLAE

(Lyrics by Lord Byron)

The mountains look on Marathon –

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream’d that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persian’s grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

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!

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.

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!

Place me on Sunium’s marbled 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!

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!