And proudly hallow’d Lacedæmon’s sword,
And guided Phidias o’er the yielding stone,
With them its ardours lived—with them its light is flown.
LXVII.
Thebes, Corinth, Argos!—ye renown’d of old,
Where are your chiefs of high romantic name?
How soon the tale of ages may be told!
A page, a verse, records the fall of fame,
The work of centuries. We gaze on you,
O cities! once the glorious and the free,