Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/250

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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,