III Sweet Thessaly ! thy mystery Endears thee doubly to my soul ; I think I see thy wood nymphs flee, And hear thy fauns exhale their dole; And from Olympus comes a breeze That bears the plaint of vanished Pan. Where are thine ancient deities? Why fled they from the gaze of man? IV Where are those younglings of the world, Them into chaos? Are they gone? Or do they linger 'mid thy hills, To play upon men's wanton wills Sweet Thessaly! thy giants met Among thy rocks to scale the sky, And Ossa upon Pelion set, And fought until defeated by Supernal majesty. To-day Where are thy giants? Can they rest Within their stony graves alway, While thou art by the Turk oppressed? VI If newer faiths and younger saints E IV. THE JOURNEY. So sang I, like a pagan as I am. I think I love these newer saints; but none Nor rapt, ecstatic Stephen, holy-faced, The refuge of departed deity. Full often have I heard from brigands' lips, When, with the grasses rustling round our heads, Drinking the dew and munching ground-rats' stores I mourned those airy children of the dawn, So sang I, like a pagan as I am. But, rising through the mellow distance, came The solemn singing of Saint Stephen's monks, And I bethought me of my mission. Then, I cursed the Turk, and spat upon the land I stole in silence through the noble vale And past the camps of Turkish men-at-arms Glided with noiseless tread by night. At last, Faint with the heat and danger of the way, I came to great Janina, girdled round And so in time I came |