XC.

   The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
   The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
   Mountains above, Earth’s, Ocean’s plain below;
   Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
   Such was the scene—­what now remaineth here? 
   What sacred trophy marks the hallowed ground,
   Recording Freedom’s smile and Asia’s tear? 
   The rifled urn, the violated mound,
The dust thy courser’s hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.

XCI.

   Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
   Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng: 
   Long shall the voyager, with th’ Ionian blast,
   Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
   Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
   Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore: 
   Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! 
   Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

XCII.

   The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
   If aught that’s kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
   He that is lonely, hither let him roam,
   And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
   Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth;
   But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide,
   And scarce regret the region of his birth,
   When wandering slow by Delphi’s sacred side,
Or gazing o’er the plains where Greek and Persian died.

XCIII.

   Let such approach this consecrated land,
   And pass in peace along the magic waste: 
   But spare its relics—­let no busy hand
   Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
   Not for such purpose were these altars placed. 
   Revere the remnants nations once revered;
   So may our country’s name be undisgraced,
   So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was reared,
By every honest joy of love and life endeared!

XCIV.

   For thee, who thus in too protracted song
   Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays,
   Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng
   Of louder minstrels in these later days: 
   To such resign the strife for fading bays —
   Ill may such contest now the spirit move
   Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise,
   Since cold each kinder heart that might approve,
And none are left to please where none are left to love.

XCV.

   Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! 
   Whom youth and youth’s affections bound to me;
   Who did for me what none beside have done,
   Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
   What is my being? thou hast ceased