Since our Country, our God—Oh, my Sire!
Demand that thy Daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was brought by thy vow—
Strike the bosom that’s bared for thee now!
And the voice of my mourning is o’er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
And of this, oh, my Father! be sure—
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my Father and Country are free!
When this blood of thy giving hath gush’d,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush’d,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!
Other works by Lord Byron...
To a Lady, Who Presented to the Author a Lock of Hair Braided With His Own, and Appointed a Night in December to Meet Him in the Garden
These locks, which fondly thus ent
In firmer chains our hearts confin
Than all th’ unmeaning protestatio
Which swell with nonsense love ora
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve