VI.

War from the West!--the snows on Thracian hills Are loosed by Spring’s warm breath; yet o’er the lands Which Hæmus girds, the chainless mountain-rills Pour down less swiftly than the Moslem bands. War from the East!--midst Araby’s lone sands, More lonely now the few bright founts may be, While Ismael’s bow is bent in warrior-hands Against the Golden City of the sea.[205] --Oh! for a soul to fire thy dust, Thermopylæ!