This hill was converted into a burial-place for the Turks, and
is covered with their tombs.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might--thy grand in soul?
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were--
First in the race that led to Glory's goal;
They won, and passed away. Is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Here let me sit, upon this massy stone,
The marble column's yet unshaken base;
Here, son of Saturn, was thy fav'rite throne--
Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place.
It may not be--nor ev'n can Fancy's eye
Restore what time hath labour'd to deface:
Yet these proud pillars, claiming sigh,
Unmoved the Moslem sits--the light Greek carols by.
BYRON.
[Illustration: THE PNYX AT ATHENS.]
* * * * *
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
[Illustration: Letter T.]
The Isles of Greece! the Isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung--
Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun is set.
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