Here Solon dwelt, the philosophic sage That fled Pisistratus’ vindictive rage; Just Aristides here maintained the cause, Whose sacred precepts shine through Solon’s laws: Of all her towering structures, now alone Some columns stand, with mantling weeds o’ergrown; The wandering stranger near the port descries A milk-white lion of stupendous size, Of antique marble; hence the haven’s name, Unknown to modern natives whence it came. Next, in the gulf of Engia, Corinth lies, Whose gorgeous fabrics seemed to strike the skies; Whom, though by tyrant victors oft subdued, Greece, Egypt, Rome, with admiration viewed: Her name, for architecture long renown’d, Spread like the foliage which her pillars crowned; But now, in fatal desolation laid, Oblivion o’er it draws a dismal shade. Then further westward, on Morea’s land, Fair Misitra! thy modern turrets stand: Ah! who, unmoved with secret woe, can tell That here great Lacedæmon’s glory fell; Here once she flourished, at whose trumpet’s sound War burst his chains, and nations shook around; Here brave Leonidas from shore to shore Through all Achaia bade her thunders roar: He, when imperial Xerxes from afar Advanced with Persia’s sumless hosts to war, Till Macedonia shrunk beneath his spear, And Greece all shuddered as the chief drew near; He, at Thermopylæ’s decisive plain, Their force opposed with Sparta’s glorious train; Tall Oeta saw the tyrant’s conquered bands In gasping millions bleed on hostile lands: Thus vanquished, haughty Asia heard thy name, And Thebes, and Athens, sickened at thy fame; Thy state, supported by Lycurgus’ laws, Gained, like thine arms, superlative applause; E’en great Epaminondas strove in vain To curb thy spirit with a Theban chain: But ah! how low that free-born spirit now! Thy abject sons to haughty tyrants bow; A false, degenerate, superstitious race Invest thy region, and its name disgrace. Not distant far, Arcadia’s blest domains Peloponnesus’ circling shore contains: Thrice happy soil! where still serenely gay, Indulgent Flora breathed perpetual May: Where buxom Ceres bade each fertile field Spontaneous gifts in rich profusion yield; Then, with some rural nymph supremely blest, While transport glowed in each enamoured breast, Each faithful shepherd told his tender pain, And sung of sylvan sports in artless strain; Soft as the happy swain’s enchanting lay That pipes among ‘The Shades of Endermay:’ Now, sad reverse! Oppression’s iron hand Enslaves her natives, and despoils her land; In lawless rapine bred, a sanguine train, With midnight ravage, scour th’ uncultured plain. Westward of these, beyond the Isthmus, lies The long sought Isle of Ithacus the wise; Where fair Penelope, of him deprived,