 | Grouped thoughts and scattered fancies |  |
49
LXVII
ATTICA.
Sterile but proud, beneath her own blue sky,Sleeps Attica, there bounded by the sea,
There by Eubœa; yet how boundless she,
In sole dominion; with her realms that lie,
Wherever winds can wing, or waters bear
The proofs of her great magic;—magic wrought,
By genius, on the stern and shapeless thought,
Which thenceforth took a form that cannot fear
Whatever Time may threaten. Overthrow
Her altars, yet how certain that the God,
Still from the eminence sends her breath abroad
Spelling the nations with her soul alone;
The soul that makes soil sacred, and from earth,
Triumphant plucks the doom of death that came with birth.
| Grouped thoughts and scattered fancies | |