And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes;
And thou, surrounded by thy warriors’ graves,
Hast drain’d the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves.
LVII.
Now all is o’er—for thee alike are flown
Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud;
And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone,
Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud.
Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low;
From their cold altars have thy Lares fled;