Gycia. Father, we are of the Athenian race,

33

33

Which was the flower of Hellas. Ours the fame

Of Poets, Statesmen, Orators, whose works

And thoughts upon the forehead of mankind

Shine like a precious jewel; ours the glory

Of those great Soldiers who by sea and land

Scattered the foemen to the winds of heaven,

First in the files of time. And though our mother,

Our Athens, sank, crushed by the might of Rome,

What is Rome now?—An Empire rent in twain;

An Empire sinking 'neath the unwieldy weight

Of its own power; an Empire where the Senate

Ranks lower than the Circus, and a wanton

Degrades the Imperial throne. But though to its fall

The monster totters, this our Cherson keeps

The bravery of old, and still maintains

The old Hellenic spirit and some likeness

Of the fair Commonwealth which ruled the world.

 Prev. P 33/208 next