Such was the scene—what now remaineth here?
What sacred Trophy marks the hallowed ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear?'[1]
The rifled urn, the violated mound,[2]
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.
XCI.
Yet to the remnants of thy Splendour past[3]
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast,[4]
Hail the bright clime of Battle and of Song:
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;
Boast of the agéd! lesson of the young!
Which Sages venerate and Bards adore.
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.
XCII.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely—hither let him roam,
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth:
