ENGLAND TO ATHENS:—
O Queen of Cities, with a crown of woe,
Scarred by the ruin of two thousand years,
By fraud and by barbarian force laid low,
Buried in dust, and watered with the tears
Of unregarded bondmen, toiling on,
Crushed in the shadow of their Parthenon;
Mother of heroes, Athens, nought availed
The Macedonian's triumph, or the chain
Of Rome; the conquering Osmanli failed,
His myriad hosts have trampled thee in vain.
They for thy deathless body raised the pyre,
And held the torch, but Heaven forbade the fire.
Then didst thou rise, and, shattering thy bands,
Burst in war's thunder on the Muslim horde,
Who shrank appalled before thee, while thy hands
Wielded again the imperishable sword,
The sword that smote the Persian when he came,
Countless as sand, thy virgin might to tame.
Mother of freemen, Athens, thou art free,
Free as the spirits of thy mighty dead;
And Freedom's northern daughter calls to thee,
"How shall I help thee, sister? Raise thy head,
O Athens, say what can I give thee now,
I who am free, to deck thy marble brow?"