From Plato's mouth his heavenly eloquence. Thence further glancing, let your eye repose Upon the distant mountains whose dark range Bounds the wide prospect, and exulting flash When on yon pointed peak, Egaleos,
It views, or seems to view, the Persian king Thrice leaping from his throne, as he beholds His shatter'd navy dark'ning the broad wave Of Salamis. Now strain your utmost sight To Corinth, and the hills of Pelops' isle, Which on the amber sky of ev'ning float Like summer clouds, thence homeward turning, view The wide Saronic sea, broken in capes, In headlands, and in gulphs, Piræus' Bay, And bleak Munychia; mark its golden breast Studded with purple isles, and overhung With marble temples, to the level ray Of sunset gleaming, till it melts in gloom Beyond the shadow of Egina's rocks, Amidst the dark Ægean's distant surge.
With what a troubled and tumultuous tide Of pleasure and of pain do ages past
Rush on the mind amidst such scenes as these! Like light and shadow in a cloudy gale Coursing alternate o'er the furrow'd wave. Joy for a moment plays upon the lips, But the deep throb of melancholy shoots A sterner feeling to the heart, and dulls The transient smile. Here as 1 stand and view The solitary and dejected state,
Queen of cities, and muse on what thou wert, And what art now, I feel a secret pang
To think that thou, my country, though thy throne Seems fix'd and rooted in th' eternal deep,
Must fall, and all thy glories, all thy pow'r,
Pass like the mem'ry of a dream away.
The time must come when thou shalt lie as low As Pallas's great city, when thy walls, Thy senate-house, thy theatres, thy fanes, Shall be a shelter for each wand'ring bird And noisome reptile; and thy crowded ports, Now thund'ring with the iron din of war, Re-echo only to the beating wave.
Yet not unhonour'd or unwept shalt thou Yield to the storm of destiny; the youths,
Whom the broad gleam of science cheers at length In distant climes and under sultry suns, When they shall hear accorded to the harp
Of history and song thy solemn voice,
Shall seek thy shores, and muse with pious awe Amidst the ruins of thy fall'n pow'r.
The hoarse wind sighs around the mould'ring walls Of the vast theatre, like the deep roar
Of distant waves, or the tumultuous rush Of multitudes; the lichen creeps along
Each yawning crevice, and the wild flow'r hangs Its long festoons around each crumbling stone. The windows arch and massive buttress glow With time's deep tints, whilst cypress-shadows wave On high, and spread a melancholy gloom.
Who shall again awake the sacred sounds Of tragedy, with which these walls were wont To echo? who into the verse shall breathe Precepts of wisdom, or in choral strains, Of mightiest pow'r, to awe the guilty soul, Sing justice and revenge, and the dread frown Of retribution? Who again shall paint The self-devoted wife, falt'ring a last Farewell to all she lov'd; the watchful maid, Bending in sorrrow o'or her brother's bed, And calming with her voice the agonies Of phrenzy? What exulting bard in view
Of the dark shores near which he triumph'd, sing The dreadful scene of shatter'd fleets, and waves Rolling in blood-stain'd foam, and all the pride Of Persia blasted by his country's arm?
Or what inspired orator amidst
The bending circle here again shall rouse The patriot multitude to enterprise Of danger and of war, when he beholds The cloud of conflict rolling from the East ? Silent, for ever silent is the voice
Of Tragedy and Eloquence; in climes Far distant, and beneath a cloudy sky The echo of their harps is heard, but all The soul-subduing energy is fled.
For what are they who now possess the seats Of their forefathers, who with servile steps Press Freedom's land, and with unconscious gaze, Mutt'ring the pray'r of superstition, pass The awful temple and the ruin'd tomb! Shades of the heroic dead, behold your sons, Not arm'd for battle, not in glory's school Contending for the wreath of victory;
Not with the clenched palm and furrow'd brow Of thought, reasoning with Philosophy, Or guiding with persuasion's open hand Passion's wild tumult; but low crouching down Beneath a master's scourge, and with the sounds Of friendship on their lips, tainting its bright And spotless lustre with the mildew'd breath Of dark deceit and sordid perfidy.
And lo! he comes, the modern son of Greece, The shame of Athens; mark him how he bears A look o'eraw'd and moulded to the stamp Of servitude. The ready smile, the shrug Submissive, the low cringing bow, which waits Th' imperious order, and the supple knee, Proclaim his state degen'rate: pliant still And crouching för bis gain, whether in vest Of flowing purple, and with orange zone, And saffron sandal, and a coif of fur, He apes the Archon's state; or pressing on, And elbowing the crowd, with slipper'd feet, And cap of scarlet dye, curl'd locks, and dress For speed succinct, he ranges the bazar, And earns the paltry recompence of toil.
Where then shall we the father's genius seek? Shame to the sons, amidst the song and dance, And midnight revelry; these have outliv'd The bold but transient features, these survive The glow of fancy and the strength of thought. The feast is spread, and the recumbent guests, Inclining o'er their tripods, quaff the wines Of Zea or of Samos; mirth goes round, The laugh, the jest, dispel their gloomy thoughts, And yield a momentary happiness. The strain begins-the mandoline, awak'd By rudest touch, preludes the measure wild, Whilst the responsive song, by none refus'd, Successive passes round th' applauding guests, Phrosyne's mournful dirge, or thy soft air O beautiful Haïdee! The tambour beats- And Athens' daughters, starting at the sound, In loosely-cincturd robes of crimson bue, With ringlets darkly shadowing their breasts, Throw back their snowy necks upon the air, And wave their rosy-finger'd hands, and lead The sprightly chorus, or the mazy round Which Theseus first beheld, when he return'd Victor from Crete, by Delian virgins twin'd,
Regardless of these sounds of revelry, Silent and dull, and meas'ring ev'ry step, With solemn air, the Moslem stalks along; His look, bis gait, his habit, all proclaim The supercilious despot of the land.
The muslin turban, coil'd around his head In spiral folds, shades his wan cheek; his brow Low'rs gloomily upon his half-rais'd eye;
And from his arched nose, and lip, with smile Contemptuous curl'd, his shaggy beard descends. The tawdry splendour of his garb declares His Eastern origin; a silken vest Of varied colours loosely veils his limbs, And round each ankle floats; a purple belt Invests his ample waist, bearing the load Of pistol and of studded yatagan.
One hand sustains his pipe, and one adjusts The yellow robe, which from his shoulders broad Sweeping in graceful folds, now shows and now Conceals the manly texture of his ferm. 'Tis his delight beneath a canopy Of interwoven vines, upon his mat To pass the sultry hours, inhaling fumes Of fragrant leaf, and sipping the dark stream Of Mocha's berry; he, so occupied, Recks not of toil, of danger, or of war, And hears unmov'd how Russia's hardy sons Launch their red thunders o'er the Danau's wave.
E venerable woods of Academe,
Which wave your dark shades near Colonos' rock,
Me fainting with the noon-day's sultry heat Receive into your bow'rs. I do not come To break the silence of your solitudes With Bacchanalian riot, tossing high The frantic thyrsus, but I seek your groves, The votary of science, and of peace. Let me recline where yonder olives spread
Their antique arms, emboss'd with moss-grown knots O'er cool Cephissus' stream; let me repose
And listen to the shrill cicada's note,
And distant water's melancholy sound,
Falling at intervals upon the ear.
How solemn this unruffled breadth of shade, Like the wild ocean slumb'ring in a calm! How graceful this umbrageous canopy Dimly recedes into a lengthen'd aisle
Of mingling boughs! How firm each massive trunk Props on the basement of its pillar'd strength This sylvan temple! Here Philosophy
With Plato dwelt, and burst the chains of mind; Here, with his stole across his shoulders flung, His homely garments with a leathern zone Confin'd, his snowy beard low clust'ring down Upon his ample chest, his keen dark eye Glancing from underneath the arched brow, He fix'd his sandal'd foot, and on his staff Lean'd, whilst to his disciples he declar'd How all creation's mighty fabric rose From the abyss of Chaos; next he trac'd The bounds of virtue and of vice; the source Of good and evil; sketch'd the ideal form Of beauty, and unfolded all the pow'rs Of mind by which it ranges uncontroll'd, And soars from earth to immortality.
Masters of ancient wisdom! who of old Linger'd amidst these groves, or wand'ring hence, Roam'd in Lyceum's spacious walks, and shades Of Cynosarges, I behold with awe
These scenes, as if your venerable forms Themselves appear'd slow moving through the vale. Much do we owe to you, teachers profound Of moral law, though in our pride of heart We oft forget our masters, and the heights
Once vanquish'd, scorn the friendly arm which propp'd Our upward steps. To search the bidden pow'rs Of thought; to trace each secret spring that gives An impulse to its energies; to tear
The mask from Vice, and shew its hideous form
Contrasted with the native loveliness
Of Virtue; to unfold the varied chain Of social order, and observe the links Whose strong dependencies bind man to man, Was your exalted task; and though ye droop'd Ofttimes, and loiter'd in dim Error's maze, Yet still ye labour'd in the paths of truth, And saw the twilight of that day, whose light Beams with a clear effulgence upon us.
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