XLV.
Lo, where th’ Albanian spreads his despot sway
O’er Thessaly’s rich vales and glowing plains,
Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey,
Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains:
Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth,
And many a chief of old illustrious line,
Yield not one spirit of unconquer’d worth
To kindle those that now in bondage pine?
No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath,
And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death.