THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet; But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; |