Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;

Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,

Thine olive ripe as when Minerva[192] smiled,

And still his honied wealth Hymettus[193] yields;

There the blithe Bee his fragrant fortress builds,

The free-born wanderer of thy mountain-air;

Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,

Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare:[fv]

Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair.