LXV.
Now is the train of Superstition flown!
Unearthly beings walk on earth no more;
The deep wind swells with no portentous tone,
The rustling wood breathes no fatidic lore.
Fled are the phantoms of Livadia’s cave,
There dwell no shadows, but of crag and steep;
Fount of Oblivion! in thy gushing wave,[41]
That murmurs nigh, those powers of terror sleep.
Oh that such dreams alone had fled that clime!
But Greece is changed in all that could be changed by time!