I buckle to my slender side <br />The pistol and the scimitar, <br />And in my maiden flower and pride <br />Am come to share the tasks of war. <br />And yonder stands my fiery steed, <br />That paws the ground and neighs to go, <br />My charger of the Arab breed,-- <br />I took him from the routed foe. <br /> <br />My mirror is the mountain spring, <br />At which I dress my ruffled hair; <br />My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, <br />And wash away the blood-stain there. <br />Why should I guard from wind and sun <br />This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled? <br />It was for one--oh, only one-- <br />I kept its bloom, and he is dead. <br /> <br />But they who slew him--unaware <br />Of coward murderers lurking nigh-- <br />And left him to the fowls of air, <br />Are yet alive--and they must die. <br />They slew him--and my virgin years <br />Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, <br />And many an Othman dame, in tears, <br />Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. <br /> <br />I touched the lute in better days, <br />I led in dance the joyous band; <br />Ah! they may move to mirthful lays <br />Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. <br />The march of hosts that haste to meet <br />Seems gayer than the dance to me; <br />The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet <br />As the fierce shout of victory.<br /><br />William Cullen Bryant<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/song-of-the-greek-amazon/
