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XVI.
Oh Greece! thy flourishing cities were a spoil
Unto each other; thy hard hand oppress’d
And crush’d the helpless; thou didst make thy soil
Drunk with the blood of those that lov’d thee best;
And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast,
Thy just and brave to die in distant climes;
Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sigh’d for rest
From thine abominations; after times
That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes.
XVII.
Yet there was that within thee which has sav’d
Thy glory, and redeem’d thy blotted name;
The story of thy better deeds, engrav’d
On fame’s unmouldering pillar, puts to shame
Our chiller virtue; the high art to tame
The whirlwind of the passions was thine own;
And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came,
Far over many a land and age has shone,
And mingles with the light that beams from God’s own throne.
