Poetry Archives

Weep not for Scio’s children slain;
  Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed,
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain
  For vengeance on the murderer’s head.

Though high the warm red torrent ran
  Between the flames that lit the sky,
Yet, for each drop, an armed man
  Shall rise, to free the land, or die.

And for each corpse, that in the sea
  Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds,
A hundred of the foe shall be
  A banquet for the mountain birds.

Stern rites and sad, shall Greece ordain
  To keep that day, along her shore,
Till the last link of slavery’s chain
  Is shivered, to be worn no more.