XLV.

Lo, where th’ Albanian spreads his despot sway O’er Thessaly’s rich vales and glowing plains, Whose sons in sullen abjectness obey, Nor lift the hand indignant at its chains: Oh! doth the land that gave Achilles birth, And many a chief of old illustrious line, Yield not one spirit of unconquer’d worth To kindle those that now in bondage pine? No! on its mountain-air is slavery’s breath, And terror chills the hearts whose utter’d plaints were death.