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Hope, thy sister, airy queen,
Forms with thee her lovely scene.
"Oh! thou visionary maid,"
Lend my soul thy magic aid,
To cheer with rainbows every shade.
THE SPARTAN MOTHER AND HER SON.
MOTHER.
My son, let virtue animate thy breast;
Fly to the battle—spurn inglorious rest!
Take up the spear and lance—with ardour go,
March proudly forward to repel the foe!
Let all the spirit of thy noble sire,
With rising energy thy soul inspire!
Thy bleeding country calls thee to the fight,
And duty prompts thee to defend the right.
Fly swiftly, Isadas, for glory says,
"Why dost thou waste in peace thy slothful days?"
SON.
I go my mother, for the deathless crown
Which fires the youthful hero to renown!
And if thy soldier shall return to thee,
And bring the laurel-wreath of victory,
