VIII.

They slumber with their swords!--the olive shades In vain are whispering their immortal tale! In vain the spirit of the past pervades The soft winds, breathing through each Grecian vale. Yet must _thou_ wake, though all unarm’d and pale, Devoted City! Lo! the Moslem’s spear, Red from its vintage, at thy gates; his sail Upon thy waves, his trumpet in thine ear! --Awake! and summon those, who yet perchance may hear!