We lingered on the Acropolis till the lengthening shadows told us the day was coming to a close. We watched the sun go down, and as the disc of light touched the horizon, one of our party repeated the lines which Byron is said to have written on this historic spot:
“Slow sinks, more lovely, ere his race be run,
Along Morea’s hills, the setting sun;
Not, as in Northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O’er the hushed deep his mellow beim he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it flows.
O’er old Egina’s rock and Hydra’s Ile,
The god of Gladness sheds his parting smile:
O’er his own regions lingering, loves to shine,