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

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

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

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.

ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY.

[From the same.]

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

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.

STORY