That Greece, for all the lore she gave,

Should cry in vain, “Save, Europe, save!”

How could you let the gasping child

Besmear with gore the mother wild?

How could ye let that wild one be

The sport of wanton cruelty?

Or Beauty, from Dishonour’s bed,

Swell reeking piles of kindred dead,

Where mingled, in the corse-fed fires,

The cindered bones of sons and sires!