LX.

And still the olive spreads its foliage round Morea’s fallen sanctuaries and towers. Once its green boughs Minerva’s votaries crown’d, Deem’d a meet offering for celestial powers. The suppliant’s hand its holy branches bore;[38] They waved around the Olympic victor’s head; And, sanctified by many a rite of yore, Its leaves the Spartan’s honour’d bier o’erspread. Those rites have vanish’d--but o’er vale and hill Its fruitful groves arise, revered and hallow’d still.[39]