Daily National Intelligencer

Land of the brave! where lie inurn'd
The shrouded forms of mortal clay
In whom the fire of valor burn'd
And blazed upon the battle's fray:

Land where the gallant Spartan few
Bled at Thermopylæ of yore,
When death his purple garment threw
On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the muse! within thy bowers
Her soul-entrancing echoes rung,
While on their course the rapid hours
Paused at the melody she sung—

Till every grove and every hill,
And ev'ry stream that flowed along,
From morn to night repeated still
The winning harmony of song

Land of dead heroes—living slaves—
Shall glory gild thy clime no more;
Her banners float above thy waves.
Where proudly it hath swept before?

Hath not remembrance then a charm
To break the fetters and the chain;
To bid thy children nerve the arm,
And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls—the light which shone
On Leuctra's war-empurpled day;
The light which beam'd on Marathon,
Hath lost its splendor, ceas'd to play

And thou art but a shadow now.
With helmet shatter'd—spear in rust
Thy honor but a dream—and thou
Despised—degraded—in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit that of old
Dash'd down to earth the Persian plume,
When the loud chaunt of triumph told
How fatal was the despot's doom?

The bold three hundred—where are they.
Who died on battle's gory breast?
Tyrants have trampled on the clay,
Where death has hush'd them into rest

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill
A glory shines of ages fled,
And fame her light is pouring still.
Not on the living—but the dead!

But 'tis the dim sepulchral light
Which sheds a faint and feeble ray,
As noonbeams on the brow of night,
When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance—
Behold thy banner waves afar—
Behold the glittering weapons glance
Along the gleaming front of war!

A gallant chief, of high emprize,
Is urging foremost in the field,
Who calls upon thee to arise
In might—in majesty reveal'd.

In vain, in vain the hero calls;
In vain he sounds the trumpet loud
His banner totters—see, it falls
In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud:

Thy children have no soul to dare
Such deeds as glorified their sires;
Their valor but a meteor's glare,
Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where genius made his reign,
And rear'd his golden arch on high;
Where Science rais'd her sacred fane,
Its summit peering to the sky:

Upon thy clime the midnight deep
Of ignorance hath brooded long,
And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep
The sons of science and of song.

The sun hath set—the evening storm
Hath pass'd in giant fury by,
To blast the beauty of thy form,
And spread its pall upon the sky:

Gone is thy glory's diadem,
And Freedom never more shall cease
To pour her mournful requiem
O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

FLORIO.

New York, October 6. 1821.

For the above classical lines, we are indebted to a writer in the New York Commercial Advertiser. We concur with the Evening Post in the opinion that they "are an honor to the writer, whoever he may be."