III.

Oh! yet--for there my steps have been; 510 These feet have pressed the sacred shore, These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne-- Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn, To trace again those fields of yore, Believing every hillock green Contains no fabled hero's ashes, And that around the undoubted scene Thine own "broad Hellespont"[153] still dashes, Be long my lot! and cold were he Who there could gaze denying thee! 520