LXXIII. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! In bleak Thermopyla's sepulchral strait Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb? LXXIV. Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed unmanned. LXXV. In all save form alone, how changed! and who Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. LXXVI. Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not Who would be free themselves must strike the blow? Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour, The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; |