They bow to Ottoman’s imperious yoke; }
No longer Fame their drooping heart inspires,
For stern Oppression quenched its genial fires:
Though still her fields, with golden harvests crown’d,
Supply the barren shores of Greece around,
Sharp penury afflicts these wretched isles,
There Hope ne’er dawns, and Pleasure never smiles;
The vassal wretch contented drags his chain,
And hears his famished babes lament in vain;
These eyes have seen the dull reluctant soil