Volume 100 / Act 3 — THE FRIEZE OF THE PARTHENON.

O Queen of Cities, with a crown of woe, Scarred by the ruin of two thousand years, By fraud and by barbarian force laid low, Buried in dust, and watered with the tears Of unregarded bondmen, toiling on, Crushed in the shadow of their Parthenon; Mother of heroes, Athens, nought availed The Macedonian's triumph, or the chain Of Rome; the conquering Osmanli failed, His myriad hosts have trampled thee in vain. They for thy deathless body raised the pyre, And held the torch, but Heaven forbade the fire. Then didst thou rise, and, shattering thy bands, Burst in war's thunder on the Muslim horde, Who shrank appalled before thee, while thy hands Wielded again the imperishable sword, The sword that smote the Persian when he came, Countless as sand, thy virgin might to tame. Mother of freemen, Athens, thou art free, Free as the spirits of thy mighty dead; And Freedom's northern daughter calls to thee, "How shall I help thee, sister? Raise thy head, O Athens, say what can I give thee now, I who am free, to deck thy marble brow?"

Shot-dinted, but defiant of decay, Stand my gaunt columns in a tragic line, The shattered relics of a glorious day, Mute guardians of the lost Athena's shrine. The flame of hope, that faded to despair Ere Hellas burst her chains, is imaged there. Yet one there was who came to her for gain, Ere yet the years of her despair were run; And with harsh zeal defaced the ruined fane Full in the blazing light of Hellas' sun. Spoiling my home with sacrilegious hand, He bore his captives to a foreign land. Ilissus mourns his tutelary god, Theseus in some far city doth recline: Lost is the Horse of Night that erstwhile trod My hall; the god-like shapes that once were mine Call to me, "Mother save us ere we die, Far from thy arms beneath a sunless sky." How shall I answer? for my arms are fain To clasp them fast upon the rock-bound steep, Their ancient home. Shall Athens yearn in vain, And all in vain must woful Hellas weep? Must the indignant shade of PHIDIAS mourn For his dear city, free but how forlorn? How shall I answer? Nay, I turn to thee, England, and pray thee, from thy northern throne Step down and hearken, give them back to me, O generous sister, give me back mine own. Thy jewelled forehead needs no alien gem Torn from a hapless sister's diadem.