'Tis not where sculpture rules a world grown dim
Fair Hellas lies, so dear to poet's heart,—
Not in the galleries of sacred art,
Where group the old gods maimed in trunk and limb.
Nor is it where enchanted islands swim
The warm Ægean waves, and where apart
Through rosy mists Olympian heights upstart,
And float like dreams on the horizon's rim.
Ah, where is Hellas then? 'Tis where fresh eyes
Look forth with love on nature's face again;
There dreams spring up and fairy visions rise,
And hallowed fanes appear by cliff and glen.
In the warm breast of Nature, Hellas lies,—
Great mother of all gods and godlike men.