VIII.
Where soft the sunbeams play, the zephyrs blow,
’Tis hard to deem that misery can be nigh;
Where the clear heavens in blue transparence glow,
Life should be calm and cloudless as the sky;
—Yet o’er the low, dark dwellings of the dead,
Verdure and flowers in summer-bloom may smile,
And ivy-boughs their graceful drapery spread
In green luxuriance o’er the ruin’d pile;
And mantling woodbine veil the wither’d tree;—
And thus it is, fair land! forsaken Greece, with thee.