III.

Oh! yet—for there my steps have been; 510

These feet have pressed the sacred shore,

These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne—

Minstrel! with thee to muse, to mourn,

To trace again those fields of yore,

Believing every hillock green

Contains no fabled hero's ashes,

And that around the undoubted scene

Thine own "broad Hellespont"[153] still dashes,

Be long my lot! and cold were he

Who there could gaze denying thee! 520

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