Ilissus mourns his tutelary god,
Theseus in some far city doth recline:
Lost is the Horse of Night that erstwhile trod
My hall; the god-like shapes that once were mine
Call to me, "Mother save us ere we die,
Far from thy arms beneath a sunless sky."
How shall I answer? for my arms are fain
To clasp them fast upon the rock-bound steep,
Their ancient home. Shall Athens yearn in vain,
And all in vain must woful Hellas weep?
Must the indignant shade of PHIDIAS mourn
For his dear city, free but how forlorn?
How shall I answer? Nay, I turn to thee,
England, and pray thee, from thy northern throne
Step down and hearken, give them back to me,
O generous sister, give me back mine own.
Thy jewelled forehead needs no alien gem
Torn from a hapless sister's diadem.
* * * * *
NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol.
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