Such is the aspect of this shore;

90

'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,

We start, for soul is wanting there.

Hers is the loveliness in death,

That parts not quite with parting breath; 95 But beauty with that fearful bloom,

That hue which haunts it to the tomb,

Expression's last receding ray,

A gilded halo hovering round decay,

The farewell beam of Feeling past away!

99

Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly

birth,

Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished

earth!

Clime of the unforgotten brave!

Whose land from plain to mountain-cave
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave;

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,

105

That this is all remains of thee?

Approach thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopyla?

These waters blue that round you lave, 110
Oh servile offspring of the free-

Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?

The gulf, the rock of Salamis!

These scenes, their story not unknown,

Arise, and make again your own;

Snatch from the ashes of your sires
The embers of their former fires;

And he who in the strife expires

115

Will add to theirs a name of fear
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.

Bear witness, Greece, thy living page,

120

125

Attest it many a deathless age!

While kings, in dusty darkness hid,

Have left a nameless pyramid,

Thy heroes, though the general doom

Hath swept the column from their tomb,

A mightier monument command,

130

The mountains of their native land!

There points thy Muse to stranger's eye

The graves of those that cannot die!

135.

Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,
Each step from splendour to disgrace;
Enough-no foreign foe could quell
Thy soul, till from itself it fell;

Yes! Self-abasement paved the way

To vilain-bonds and despot-sway.

140

What can he tell who treads thy shore?
No legend of thine olden time,

No theme on which the muse might soar,

High as thine own in days of yore,

When man was worthy of thy clime.

The hearts within thy valleys bred,

The fiery souls that might have led

Thy sons to deeds sublime,

Now crawl from cradle to the grave,

Slaves-nay, the bondsmen of a slave,

And callous, save to crime;

145

150

6

Stained with each evil that pollutes

Mankind, where least above the brutes;

Without even savage virtue blest,

Without one free or valiant breast.

Still to the neighbouring ports they waft
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft;

155

In this the subtle Greek is found,
For this, and this alone, renowned.

160

In vain might Liberty invoke

The spirit to its bondage broke,

Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: