 
Give back the Elgin marbles; let them lie Unsullied, pure beneath an Attic sky. The smoky fingers of our northern clime More ruin work than all the ancient time. How oft the roar of the Piraen sea Through column'd hall and dusky temple stealing Hath struck these marble ears, that now must flee The whirling hum of London, noonward reeling. Ah! let them hear again the sounds that float Around Athene's shrine on morning's breeze,— The lowing ox, the bell of climbing goat And drowsy drone of far Hymettus' bees. Give back the marbles; let them vigil keep Where art still lies, o'er Pheidias' tomb, asleep. Lukunga Valley, |
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