“That man has some noble traits,” he said to himself as he noticed this; “he is moved by the wrongs of his country.”
“What a fine ringing melody!” cried Eunice, whose eyes were flashing with excitement.
“It is like ‘Chevy Chase,’” said Maurice quickly, “and stirs the heart like the sound of a trumpet.”
“The poet was evidently inspired by Byron,” remarked Crispin, idly fingering the piano keys; “I expect he wrote it after the ‘Isles of Greece,’ song. Ah, a Greek should have written that.”
“I am afraid the days of Alcæus are past,” replied the Rector, who had understood a considerable portion of the song, owing to his acquaintance with the ancient Attic tongue; “Greece prefers Anacreon. Still she won her freedom bravely.”
“And to what gain?” said Caliphronas bitterly; “to be ruled by a Danish prince. Better the republics of Athens, Sparta, and Thebes, than such playing at monarchy.”
“To revive the ancient government you must have the ancient patriots, poets, and scholars.”
“That I am afraid is impossible. No, the glory has departed from Greece. Centuries of oppression have crushed the creative faculty out of her.”
“Oh, let us hope, when the Greek Empire is reconstructed, we will have a new Pindar, a new Sophocles, a new Plato.”
“That is a dream of the lyre, not of the sword,” replied Caliphronas, carelessly glancing at his watch. “By the way, it is very late, and, as we have to be up early, I suppose we ought to retire early.”