Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Asia: Vols. XXI–XXIII. 1876–79.
Crete
By Christopher Pearse Cranch (18131892)S
The thrill of thy voice and the joy of thy lyre;
Heard thee far off singing sweet of the bright time
Prophets foretold in their large heart’s desire.
While we stood calling thy name from afar.
Come to thy summer bowers, queen of high noonlight,
Full-armed and splendid,—our souls’ morning-star!
And leapt to her feet, o’er her dukes and her kings.
Come, like the new life America planted
To blossom and yield through her ages of springs.
Unbarring the portals of science and love.
Come to the bodies enslaved, tasked, and fettered;
Build up the freedom no tyrant can move.
Hoping naught, asking naught,—only to stand;
Only to stand with their arms interwreathing,
Brotherlike, bound to their own fatherland.
They call in the gloom. Are the echoes all dead?
Comes there no voice from Mount Ida in answer?
Shines there no star in the pale morning-red?
Trample their life out with barbarous feet?
Is there no god, no Olympian hero,
Left on thy mountains, O desolate Crete?
To wrest from the Turk the dead stones of a tomb,
Yet give a live race to the savage invaders,
And lift not a finger to lighten its gloom!
To the red-handed tyrant her welcoming doors;
And shame to old England, that welcome repeating,
That brings the crowned butcher a guest to her shores!
The tyrants are deaf, but the people know well
How God in the heavens sits holding the thunder,
That strikes to its centre the kingdom of hell.
Falls the swift bolt, and the thrones are ablaze.
Time yet shall re-echo the lay of the poet,
And Greece shall live over her happiest days.