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 168 BYRON

To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' 'Islands of the Blest.'

The mountains look on Marathon And Marathon looks on the sea;

And, musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free;

For, standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations; all were his!

He counted them at break of day,

And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore

The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more !

And must thy lyre, so long divine,

Degenerate into hands like mine?

'Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among a fettered race,

To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face;

For what is left the poet here ?

For Greeks a blush, for Greece a tear !

Must we but weep o'er days more blest?

Must we but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead !

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