Theirs was the marble land where, woo'd
By love-born Taste, the Gods
Themselves the life of stone endured
In more divine abodes
Than blest their own Olympus bright;
Then in supreme repose,
Afar star glittering, high and white
Athenè's shrine arose.
So the days of Pericles
The votive goblet fill--
In fane or mart we but distort
His grand achievements still!

Fill to their Matrons' memory--
The Fair who knew no fear--
But gave the hero's shield to be
His bulwark or his bier.[3]
We boast their dauntless blood----it fills
That lion-woman's veins,
Whose praise shall perish when thy hills,
JELLALABAD, are plains!
That LADY'S health! who doubts _she_ heard
Of Greece, and loved to hear?
The wheat, two thousand years interr'd,
Will still its harvest bear.[4]

The lore of Greece--the book still bright
With Plato's precious thought--
The Theban's harp--the judging-right