Lord Byron

O'L., "Byron" Dublin and London Magazine 2 (April 1826) 192.

Rest on your thrones, you sceptered things!
Ye holy Brotherhood of Kings!
The light is faded now
That showed, beneath your tinsel dress,
The vanity — the littleness—
To which the million bow.

Go, league within your dark divan
Against the rights of free-born man,
Ye ministers of ill!
The tongue that would refute your words—
The heart that would oppose your swords—
That tongue is mute, that heart is still!

Weep, Greece, above the cold remains
Of him who strove to burst thy chains:
Thy noblest — bravest son!
Yes — he was of thy highest seed—
If loving thee in word, and deed,
And thought, could make him one.

'Tis not the land where first by chance
We breathe — some despot's heritance—
Of which we form a part;
But that for which our young souls burn,
To which our hopes, our wishes turn—
The country of the heart.

Mourn thou, too — mourn, sweet Liberty!
Never did bosom throb for thee
With such unaltered faith;
Thine was his blood, his pulse, his life,—
For thee he waged eternal strife,—
For thee — he died the death.