Classic Poem

Oh, wo is me for Athens! I could weep
Like a pale boy for his young buried love;—
Yet when the cold wind hurries her to sleep,
'Tis with the fresh earth and wild flowers above;
But dust and fiery ashes cover thee,
Oh, mother of the nations! wo is me!

Oh, wo is me for Athens! could not all,
That made thee noble in the olden time,
Save one poor moment thine inglorious fall,
Mistress of arts and mother of the rhyme!
Now the spurned Persian triumphs over thee,
And the pale Frank betrays thee,—wo is me!

Oh, wo is me for Athens! now not even
One gray memorial of thy glory nods;
Nor time-blessed temple lifts its face to heaven,
Mother of ancient gods and men-like gods;
But from thy girdling mountains down on thee
Look savage men and smile,—Oh, wo is me!

Oh, wo is me for Athens! for they said
The Lion's thunder should be with the Greek,—
That France's lilied banner should be spread,
And the black eagle whet his eager beak;
But only vultures flap their wings o'er thee,
And hungry wolves are coming;—wo is me!

Oh, wo is me for Athens! times to come
Shall know how light and beauty, even like life,
Went out from thee, till deserts sprang to bloom,—
Know that the Cross waved over Freedom's strife,
And blush that Christendom could coldly see
Thee and the Cross hurled down,—oh, wo is me!

Oh, wo is me for Athens! see, they weep,
Those reverend ghosts, the noble and the sage!
And cities, thy dead children, come from sleep,
Amidst the dust of many a buried age!
But yesterday's proud minions mock at thee,
Who dids't give law to empires,—wo is me!