Not such thy sons who whilom did await,
The hopeless warriors of the willing doom,
In bleak Thermopylæ’s sepulchral strait—
Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume,
Leap from Eurotas’ banks, and call thee from the tomb?
Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honeyed wealth Hymettus yields;
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,