LXXIII. Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Who now shall lead thy scattered children forth, And long accustomed bondage uncreate? Not such thy sons who whilome did await, The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait-- Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb?
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