Now have your trophies vanish’d, and your homes Are moulder’d from the earth, while scarce remain E’en the faint traces of the ancient tombs That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, The lyres are hush’d that swell’d your fame afar, The halls that echo’d to their sounds are gone, Perish’d the conquering weapons of your war;[32] And if a mossy stone your names retain, ’Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain. XLIV. Yet, where some lone sepulchral relic stands, That with those names tradition hallows yet, Oft shall the wandering son of other lands Linger in solemn thought and hush’d regret. And still have legends mark’d the lonely spot Where low the dust of Agamemnon lies; And shades of kings and leaders unforgot, Hovering around, to fancy’s vision rise. Souls of the heroes! seek your rest again, Nor mark how changed the realms that saw your glory’s reign. XLV. Lo, where th’ Albanian spreads his despot sway O’er Thessaly’s rich vales and glowing plains, Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains: Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, And many a chief of old illustrious line, Yield not one spirit of unconquer’d worth To kindle those that now in bondage pine? No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath, And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death. XLVI. Yet if thy light, fair Freedom, rested there, How rich in charms were that romantic clime, With streams, and woods, and pastoral valleys fair, And wall’d with mountains, haughtily sublime! Heights that might well be deem’d the Muses’ reign, Since, claiming proud alliance with the skies, They lose in loftier spheres their wild domain-- Meet home for those retired divinities That love, where nought of earth may e’er intrude, Brightly to dwell on high, in lonely sanctitude. XLVII. There in rude grandeur daringly ascends Stern Pindus, rearing many a pine-clad height; He with the clouds his bleak dominion blends, Frowning o’er vales in woodland verdure bright. Wild and august in consecrated pride, There through the deep-blue heaven Olympus towers, Girdled with mists, light-floating as to hide The rock-built palace of immortal powers; Where far on high the sunbeam finds repose, Amidst th’ eternal pomp of forests and of snows. XLVIII.