CIV.

Wash from that soil the stains with battle-showers. --Beneath Sophia’s dome the Moslem prays, The Crescent gleams amidst the olive-bowers, In the Comneni’s halls the Tartar sways:[227] But not for long!--the spirit of those days, When the three hundred made their funeral pile Of Asia’s dead, is kindling, like the rays Of thy rejoicing sun, when first his smile Warms the Parnassian rock, and gilds the Delian isle.