Ilissus mourns his tutelary god,
    Theseus in some far city doth recline: 
  Lost is the Horse of Night that erstwhile trod
    My hall; the god-like shapes that once were mine
  Call to me, “Mother save us ere we die,
  Far from thy arms beneath a sunless sky.”

  How shall I answer? for my arms are fain
    To clasp them fast upon the rock-bound steep,
  Their ancient home.  Shall Athens yearn in vain,
    And all in vain must woful Hellas weep? 
  Must the indignant shade of PHIDIAS mourn
  For his dear city, free but how forlorn?

  How shall I answer?  Nay, I turn to thee,
    England, and pray thee, from thy northern throne
  Step down and hearken, give them back to me,
    O generous sister, give me back mine own. 
  Thy jewelled forehead needs no alien gem
  Torn from a hapless sister’s diadem.

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