In the old Hellenic isles,
Rich in rhetoric’s winning wiles,
’Mongst their most persuasive dead,
None like thee was ever bred;
E’en the Ithacensian’s lips
Thou couldst cast into eclipse;
Nor serpent’s eye, nor siren’s lute,
Nor Coptic Lotos’ magic fruit,
Could bewilder and entrance,
Like thy honied utterance.