List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,

    While, from Ilissus' silvery springs,

  She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;

And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving,

Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,

  Dreams of bright days that never can return;

    When Athens nurst her olive bough

      With hands by tyrant power unchained;

    And braided for the muse's brow

      A wreath by tyrant touch unstained.

    When heroes trod each classic field

      Where coward feet now faintly falter;

    When every arm was Freedom's shield,

      And every heart was Freedom's altar!