STROPHE I

O haggard queen! to Athens dost thou guide
 Thy glowing chariot, steep'd in kindred gore;
Or seek to hide thy damned parracide
 Where Peace and Mercy dwell for evermore?

The land where Truth, pure, precious, and sublime,
 Woos the deep silence of sequester'd bowers,
And warriors, matchless since the first of Time,
 Rear their bright banners o'er unconquer'd towers!

Where joyous youth, to Music's mellow strain,
 Twines in the dance with Nymphs for ever fair,
While Spring eternal, on the lilied plain,
 Waves amber radiance through the fields of air!

The tuneful Nine, so sacred legends tell,
 First wak'd their heavenly lyre these scenes among;
Still in your greenwood bowers they love to dwell;
 Still in your vales they swell the choral song!

For there the tuneful, chaste, Pierian fair,
 The guardian nymphs of green Parnassus now,
Sprung from Harmonia, while her graceful hair
 Waved in bright auburn o'er her polish'd brow!

ANTISTROPHE I

Where silent vales, and glades of green array,
 The murm'ring wreaths of cool Cephisus lave,
There, as the Muse hath sung, at noon of day,
 The Queen of Beauty bow'd to taste the wave!

And blest the stream, and breath'd across the land,
 The soft sweet gale that fans yon summer bowers;
And there the sister Loves, a smiling band,
 Crown'd with the fragrant wreaths of rosy flowers!

‘And go,’ she cries, ‘in yonder valleys rove,
 With Beauty's torch the solemn scenes illume;
Wake in each eye the radiant light of Love,
 Breathe on each cheek young Passion's tender bloom!

Entwine, with myrtle chains, your soft controul,
 To sway the hearts of Freedom's darling kind!
With glowing charms enrapture Wisdom's soul,
 And mould to grace ethereal Virtue's mind.’

STROPHE II

The land where Heaven's own hallow'd waters play,
 Where Friendship binds the generous and the good,
Say, shall it hail thee from thy frantic way,
 Unholy woman! with thy hands embrued

In thine own children's gore?—oh! ere they bleed,
 Let Nature's voice thy ruthless heart appal!
Pause at the bold, irrevocable deed—
 The mother strikes—the guiltess babes shall fall!

Think what remorse thy maddening thoughts shall sting,
 When dying pangs their gentle bosoms tear;
Where shalt thou sink, when ling'ring echoes ring
 The screams of horror in thy tortur'd ear?

No! let thy bosom melt to Pity's cry,—
 In dust we kneel—by sacred Heaven implore—
O! stop thy lifted arm, ere yet they die,
 Nor dip thy horrid hands in infant gore!—

ANTISTROPHE II

Say, how shalt thou that barb'rous soul assume?
 Undamp'd by horror at thy daring plan,
Hast thou a heart to work thy children's doom?
 Or hands to finish what thy wrath began?

When o'er each babe you look a last adieu,
 And gaze on Innocence that smiles asleep,
Shall no fond feeling beat, to Nature true,
 Charm thee to pensive thought—and bid thee weep?

When the young suppliants clasp their Parent dear,
 Heave the deep sob, and pour the artless prayer,—
Ay; thou shall melt;—and many a heart-shed tear
 Gush o'er the harden'd features of despair!

Nature shall throb in every tender string,—
 Thy trembling heart the ruffian's task deny;—
Thy horror-smitten hands afar shall fling
 The blade, undrench'd in blood's eternal dye!