Themistocles
Polluted sinks, soiled by the breath
Of those whose peace is worse than death—
Whose speech all good deeds gainsayeth.
Of those whose peace is worse than death—
Whose speech all good deeds gainsayeth.
Prostrate lay Athens, cast aside
Her joy—as on a thing forlorn
Men gazed upon her failing pride,
Her visage pale—her raiment torn—
Yet, though the flowers drooped and shed
Their petals, still her sacred head
With violets was garlanded.
Her joy—as on a thing forlorn
Men gazed upon her failing pride,
Her visage pale—her raiment torn—
Yet, though the flowers drooped and shed
Their petals, still her sacred head
With violets was garlanded.
Yea, though the Persian from far lands,
With ships and armies manifold,
Came and his hosts and mighty bands
She saw—his horses and his gold—
His flaming jewels, his splendid state,
His swords and spears importunate
She seeing—left him desolate.
With ships and armies manifold,
Came and his hosts and mighty bands
She saw—his horses and his gold—
His flaming jewels, his splendid state,
His swords and spears importunate
She seeing—left him desolate.
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