Fill high the bowl, with Samian wine,
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.

BYRON.


Lo! they come, they come!
Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home;
Bring roses, pour ye wine!

Swell, swell the Dorian flute
Thro' the blue, triumphal sky!
Let the Cittern's tone salute
The Sons of Victory!

With the offering of bright blood,
They have ransomed earth and tomb,
Vineyard, and field, and flood;--
Lo! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave,--
Sing, sing, the land is free!

Mark ye the flashing oars,
And the spears that light the deep!