Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

authentic for historical materials; but poets have their privilege, and it is unquestionable that actions of the most exalted courage have been performed by the Greeks—that they have gained more than one naval victory, and that their defeat in Wallachia was signalized by circumstances of heroism more glorious even than victory.

      The apathy of the rulers of the civilised world to the astonishing circumstance of the descendants of that nation to which they owe their civilisation, rising as it were from the ashes of their ruin, is something perfectly inexplicable to a mere spectator of the shows of this mortal scene. We are all Greeks. Our laws, our literature, our religion, our arts have their root in Greece. But for Greece—Rome, the instructor, the conqueror, or the metropolis of our ancestors, would have spread no illumination with her arms, and we might still have been savages and idolaters; or, what is worse, might have arrived at such a stagnant and miserable state of social institution as China and Japan possess.

      The human form and the human mind attained to a perfection in Greece which has impressed its image on those faultless productions, whose very fragments are the despair of modern art, and has propagated impulses which cannot cease, through a thousand channels of manifest or imperceptible operation, to ennoble and delight mankind until the extinction of the race.

      The modern Greek is the descendant of those glorious beings whom the imagination almost refuses to figure to itself as belonging to our kind, and he inherits much of their sensibility, their rapidity of conception, their enthusiasm, and their courage. If in many instances he is degraded by moral and political slavery to the practice of the basest vices it engenders—and that below the level of ordinary degradation—let us reflect that the corruption of the best produces the worst, and that habits which subsist only in relation to a peculiar state of social institution may be expected to cease as soon as that relation is dissolved. In fact, the Greeks, since the admirable novel of Anastasius could have been a faithful picture of their manners, have undergone most important changes; the flower of their youth, returning to their country from the universities of Italy, Germany, and France, have communicated to their fellow-citizens the latest results of that social perfection of which their ancestors were the original source. The University of Chios contained before the breaking out of the revolution eight hundred students, and among them several Germans and Americans. The munificence and energy of many of the Greek princes and merchants, directed to the renovation of their country with a spirit and a wisdom which has few examples, is above all praise.

      The English permit their own oppressors to act according to their natural sympathy with the Turkish tyrant, and to brand upon their name the indelible blot of an alliance with the enemies of domestic happiness, of Christianity and civilisation.

      Russia desires to possess, not to liberate Greece; and is contented to see the Turks, its natural enemies, and the Greeks, its intended slaves, enfeeble each other until one or both fall into its net. The wise and generous policy of England would have consisted in establishing the independence of Greece, and in maintaining it both against Russia and the Turk;—but when was the oppressor generous or just?

      Should the English people ever become free, they will reflect upon the part which those who presume to represent their will have played in the great drama of the revival of liberty, with feelings which it would become them to anticipate. This is the age of the war of the oppressed against the oppressors, and every one of those ringleaders of the privileged gangs of murderers and swindlers, called Sovereigns, look to each other for aid against the common enemy, and suspend their mutual jealousies in the presence of a mightier fear. Of this holy alliance all the despots of the earth are virtual members. But a new race has arisen throughout Europe, nursed in the abhorrence of the opinions which are its chains, and she will continue to produce fresh generations to accomplish that destiny which tyrants foresee and dread.

      The Spanish Peninsula is already free. France is tranquil in the enjoyment of a partial exemption from the abuses which its unnatural and feeble government are vainly attempting to revive. The seed of blood and misery has been sown in Italy, and a more vigorous race is arising to go forth to the harvest. The world waits only the news of a revolution of Germany to see the tyrants who have pinnacled themselves on its supineness precipitated into the ruin from which they shall never arise. Well do these destroyers of mankind know their enemy, when they impute the insurrection in Greece to the same spirit before which they tremble throughout the rest of Europe, and that enemy well knows the power and the cunning of its opponents, and watches the moment of their approaching weakness and inevitable division to wrest the bloody sceptres from their grasp.—

      DRAMATIS PERSONAE

      MAHMUD.

      HASSAN.

      DAOOD.

      AHASUERUS, a Jew.

      Chorus of Greek Captive Women.

      Messengers, Slaves, and Attendants.

      SCENE, Constantinople.

      TIME, Sunset.

      ———

      SCENE. A Terrace on the Seraglio.

      MAHMUD sleeping, an Indian slave sitting beside his couch.

      CHORUS OF GREEK CAPTIVE WOMEN.

      We strew these opiate flowers

      On thy restless pillow,—

      They were stripped from Orient bowers,

      By the Indian billow.

      Be thy sleep

      Calm and deep,

      Like theirs who fell—not ours who weep!

      INDIAN.

      Away, unlovely dreams!

      Away, false shapes of sleep

      Be his, as Heaven seems,

      Clear, and bright, and deep!

      Soft as love, and calm as death,

      Sweet as a summer night without a breath.

      CHORUS.

      Sleep, sleep! our song is laden

      With the soul of slumber;

      It was sung by a Samian maiden,

      Whose lover was of the number

      Who now keep

      That calm sleep

      Whence none may wake, where none shall weep.

      INDIAN.

      I touch thy temples pale!

      I breathe my soul on thee!

      And could my prayers avail,

      All my joy should be

      Dead, and I would live to weep,

      So thou mightst win one hour of quiet sleep.

      CHORUS.

      Breathe low, low

      The spell of the mighty mistress now!

      When Conscience lulls her sated snake,

      And Tyrants sleep, let Freedom wake.

      Breathe low—low

      The words which, like secret fire, shall flow

      Through the veins of the frozen earth—low, low!

      SEMICHORUS I.

      Life may change, but it may fly not;

      Hope may vanish, but can die not;

      Truth be veiled, but still it burneth;

      Love repulsed,—but it returneth!

      SEMICHORUS II.

      Yet were life a charnel where

      Hope lay coffined with Despair;

      Yet were truth a sacred