 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
70
PHOCION.
Truly ennobled in that name The Good,Thy spirit sought a thankless country's weal
Through fourscore years with all a martyr's zeal,
And then,—the fickle envious multitude,
That democratic city's viper brood,
Rewarded thee with hate and clamorous strife,
Poison'd thy fame with calumny's foul breath,
And for the wages of a patriot's life
Paid, as their wont, a malefactor's death:
Athens, base Athens, what a deed abhorr'd
Of guileless blood lies heavily on thee;
Hear to thy shame a Phocion's dying word,
‘My son, forget that thou hast seen or heard
The bitter wrongs poor Athens heap'd on me.’
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