 | The Western home |  |
112
POWERS'S STATUE OF THE GREEK SLAVE.
Be silent! breathe not! lest ye break the trance,
She thinketh of her Attic home; the leaves
Of its green olives stir within her soul,
And Love is sweeping o'er its deepest chords
So mournfully. Ah! who can weigh the wo
Or wealth of memory in that breast sublime!
She thinketh of her Attic home; the leaves
Of its green olives stir within her soul,
And Love is sweeping o'er its deepest chords
So mournfully. Ah! who can weigh the wo
Or wealth of memory in that breast sublime!
Yet errs he not who calleth thee a slave,
Thou Christian maiden?
Gyves are on thy wrists;
But in thy soul a might of sanctity
That foils the oppressor, making to itself
A hiding-place from the sore ills of time.
What is the chain to thee, who hast the power
To bind in admiration all who gaze
Upon thine eloquent brow and matchless form?
We are ourselves thy slaves, most Beautiful!
Thou Christian maiden?
Gyves are on thy wrists;
But in thy soul a might of sanctity
That foils the oppressor, making to itself
A hiding-place from the sore ills of time.
What is the chain to thee, who hast the power
To bind in admiration all who gaze
Upon thine eloquent brow and matchless form?
We are ourselves thy slaves, most Beautiful!
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