Themistocles
And fruitless, and thy voice which stirred
Their wrath has grown most wearisome.
They hear no more thy prayers—to them
Thy love is but a fruitless stem—
Ingratitude thy diadem.
Their wrath has grown most wearisome.
They hear no more thy prayers—to them
Thy love is but a fruitless stem—
Ingratitude thy diadem.
I was their instrument and thus
I, who their will accomplishéd
In moments deep and dangerous—
When the short love of men is fled,
Shall not be utterly forthcast,
Nor seek in vain, but strong at last
Reap passionate vengeance for the past.
I, who their will accomplishéd
In moments deep and dangerous—
When the short love of men is fled,
Shall not be utterly forthcast,
Nor seek in vain, but strong at last
Reap passionate vengeance for the past.
Fear me, oh! Athens—you are full
Of beauty, and against the skies
Great columns, white and wonderful—
Fair shapes of men and gods arise.
Of beauty, and against the skies
Great columns, white and wonderful—
Fair shapes of men and gods arise.
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