To make a new thermopylae

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!