An Appeal for the Candiotes

'The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece!'
In blood and bondage. Ah, to know,
To find the land, the hand, the brand
Would lay the turban'd despot low!
I know a land, an ocean isle,
That can, that would, but may not lend
Her name, her power, ye islemen brave,
The fetters from your limbs to rend.
Yet she, to Moslem allies true,
Gave name and power, gave hand and brand,
Gave thousands of her gallant sons
To perish on the Crimean strand.
'How are the mighty fallen!' Now,
Each generous impulse we restrain;
When British freedom walks abroad,
She drags at foot the clog and chain!
There is a hand that wields a brand,
That hand unsheathed it never, never,
But to descend, with lightning flash,
The bonds of tyranny to sever.
O! might that hand unsheath it now,
And bid it gleam on Ægean waters,
To save for Greece, from Moslem hands,
The fairest of her sea-born daughters.
It may not be. Behind the scenes
Sits old Diplomacy, still weaving
The web of statecraft, made to hide
'The tricks of state' and cool deceiving.
Yet still that hand, that brand are thine,
O Garibaldi! Ever, ever,
That hand is raised, that brand unsheathed,
The oppressed, the trampled to deliver!