GREECE.
In the sweet vale where Lacedernon stood,
Not far from the Eurotas, where the stream,
Working its channel through some ruins old
Of tumbled columns, hides its silver line
Beneath the laurel-roses,—oh, regard!
Here, here is Greece, and in a picture all.
A woman stands, of beauty ravishing,
With naked feet, and with her fingers works
A wretched spindle, with a common reed
For distaff, and like flakes of dazzling snow
The cotton spread around her; near her see
A herdsman of Amyelée with his crook,
In a short tunic that recalls to mind
The shepherds of a bas-relief antique.
Led by a charming instinct, without art,
He leans against a white, white marble vase
Half overturned, as in the solemn days
Of Hyacinthus' worship, and his brow
Is still encircled with the sacred flowers.
Thus diademed in the shadow, with surprise
He scans three travellers from Europe. These
Sit upon mossy stones beneath an oak
Beside the road. Upon a palfrey borne
A Moslem woman passes, with her eyes
