Of the bright waves, at freedom’s voice they rose!
—Hath it no thrilling tone to break the tomb’s repose?
VIII.
They slumber with their swords!—the olive shades
In vain are whispering their immortal tale!
In vain the spirit of the past pervades
The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale.
Yet must thou wake, though all unarm’d and pale,
Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear,
Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail