Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/187

       Aged men, with temples gray!—
       Why do ye haste to the battle fray?—
       Home to the couch of ease, and pray.—
       But ah! I read on those brows of gloom,
       That your sons have found a gory tomb,
       And ye with despair and grief opprest,
       Would strike ere ye share their clay-cold rest.—

       With features pale, yet sternly wrought
       To all the agony of thought,
       Yon widow'd mothers mount the tower,
       To guard the wall in danger's hour:—
       Fast by their side in mute distress,
       Their little sons unwavering press,
       Taught from their cradle-bed to know
       The bitter tutelage of wo,
       No idle fears in their bosoms glow,
But pride and wrath in their dark eyes glance,
As they lift their martyr'd fathers' lance.

    Yet more!—Yet more!—At beat of drum
           With wildly flowing hair,
    Helle's beauteous maidens come,
           The iron strife to dare.—
       Sadly sweet from those lips of rose,
       The death-song of Bozzaris flows,
       It is your dirge, ye turban'd foes!—
    Rise, soul of Pindar! strike the shadowy lyre,
    Start from your sculptured tombs, ye sons of fire!
Snatch, snatch those gentle forms from war's alarms,
And throw your adamantine shield around their shrinking charms.