Phyle
—Byron
There is a sacred halo round thy brow;
'Tis sanctified by ages and by fame,
For here the glory of the Grecian name
Received another dazzling ray—and thou,
Immortal Phyle, smiling in the light
That heaven shed o'er thee, didst behold the deed,
The generous patriot rushing to the fight,
The tyrants conquered, and the people freed:—
Aye—they were armed with majesty and might;
But hearts that beat for freedom smile to bleed.
Oh! how they rushed to battle !—There was fire
In every bosom there; the holy star
That lighted them was hope; and their desire
Was crowned, when Thrasybulus cried, 'On, on, to war!'