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the sweet vale where Lacedernon stood, Not far from the Eurotas, where the stream, Working its channel through some ruins old Of tumbled columns, hides its silver line Beneath the laurel-roses,—oh, regard! Here, here is Greece, and in a picture all.

A woman stands, of beauty ravishing, With naked feet, and with her fingers works A wretched spindle, with a common reed For distaff, and like flakes of dazzling snow The cotton spread around her; near her see A herdsman of Amyelée with his crook, In a short tunic that recalls to mind The shepherds of a bas-relief antique. Led by a charming instinct, without art, He leans against a white, white marble vase Half overturned, as in the solemn days Of Hyacinthus' worship, and his brow Is still encircled with the sacred flowers. Thus diademed in the shadow, with surprise He scans three travellers from Europe. These Sit upon mossy stones beneath an oak Beside the road. Upon a palfrey borne A Moslem woman passes, with her eyes