SCENE AT ATHENS, DURING THE REVOLUTION.
City of Cecrops, there thou art on high,
But not in pride, as when the wondering world
Knelt to thee as a pupil, and the light
That from thy mountains flashed, fell on the globe,
As on a thing opaque. The Moslem draws
His leaguring lines around thee, and afar
'Mid thine Acropolis, is heard the sigh
Of the o'erwearied soldier, famine-struck,
Yet not despairing. He, amid his watch,
Muses on Missolonghi. Even thy vines
Uncultured, wither, and thine olives shrink
From the hot hand of war. No more thy herds
Roam o'er their pasture, and methinks the bee
That toward Hymethus hastens, sadly spreads
A languid wing.
See yon attenuate boy,
With his young tottering sister, who explore
Eager each close recess. Why glean they thus
Those scanty blades of herbage? Do they hide,
And nourish carefully some tender lamb,
Last of the flock? No! no! Their wasted brows
A stronger need bespeak. And there he goes,
A poor snail-gatherer, from whose eye, perchance,
Speaks forth the blood of Pericles.
But lo!
The cry of sudden skirmish, and sharp war,
