THE isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet; But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse;
Their place of birth alone is mute
To sounds which echo farther west
Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest."

The mountains look on Marathon,

And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone,

I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persians' grave,

I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sat on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;