Then we gained o'er ourselves a good influence vast,
From that savage old land—in our march through the past.
What country is this, that looms brightly to me,
Washed well by the waves of the Ægean sea?
'Tis the land where blind Homer, with harp of pure gold,
Sang stories that never will cease to be told;
Where Socrates, keeping an unruffled face,
Took his cup of cold poison, with infinite grace;
Where brave old Leonidas glory achieved,
Was at home in Thermopylæ's pass, and received;