Fair Greece! sad relic of departed Worth![33.B.] Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long accustomed bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The helpless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylæ's sepulchral strait-- Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?[180] LXXIV. Spirit of Freedom! when on Phyle's brow[34.B.] Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, unmanned.[fs] LXXV. In all save form alone, how changed! and who That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, Who but would deem their bosoms burned anew With thy unquenchéd beam, lost Liberty![ft] And many dream withal the hour is nigh That gives them back their fathers' heritage: For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful page. LXXVI. Hereditary Bondsmen! know ye not _Who_ would be free _themselves_ must strike the blow? By their right arms the conquest must be wrought?[181] Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No! True--they may lay your proud despoilers low, But not for you will Freedom's Altars flame. Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe! Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. LXXVII. The city won for Allah from the Giaour The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; And the Serai's impenetrable tower Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest;[35.B.] Or Wahab's[182] rebel brood who dared divest The Prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil,[36.B.] May wind their path of blood along the West; But ne'er will Freedom seek this fated soil, But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. LXXVIII. Yet mark their mirth--ere Lenten days begin, That penance which their holy rites prepare To shrive from Man his weight of mortal sin, By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, In motley robe to dance at masking ball, And join the mimic train of merry Carnival.