The name of Ion, who with besom made
Of laurel-boughs the Sun-god’s temple swept—
Ye golden climes, to poesy and love
Most dear, oases mid the wastes of Eld,
Where, in her lonely retrospective flight,
Bright-haired Mnemosyne delights to pause,
By matchless shapes of loveliness beguiled!
Within your bounds the plastic hand of art
First made the mountain’s marble entrails teem
With images of beauty, lining all