LVII.

Now all is o’er—for thee alike are flown

Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud;

And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone,

Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud.

Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low;

From their cold altars have thy Lares fled;

O’er thee, unmark’d, the sunbeams fade or glow,

And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread;

And midst thy silence, as the grave’s profound,

A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.