IV.

A voice of multitudes is on the breeze, Remote, yet solemn as the night-storm’s roar Through Ida’s giant-pines! Across the seas A murmur comes, like that the deep winds bore From Tempe’s haunted river to the shore Of the reed-crown’d Eurotas; when, of old, Dark Asia sent her battle-myriads o’er Th’ indignant wave, which would not be controll’d, But past the Persian’s chain in boundless freedom roll’d.