170 BYRON
Another despot of the kind !
Such chains as his were sure to bind.
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
On Suli's rock and Parga's shore Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore ; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.
Trust not for freedom to the Franks They have a king who buys and sells;
In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells :
But Turkish force and Latin fraud
Would break your shield, however broad.
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.
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 !
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