Fixed in deep rapture on the golden sky,-
Upon the shore, through many a billow driven,
He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven!
Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak,
Have dimmed the flush upon his faded cheek,
And many a dew, and many a noxious damp,
The daily labour, and the nightly lamp,
Have reft away, forever reft, from him,
The liquid accent, and the buoyant limb.
Yet still within him aspirations swell,
Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell:
The changeless Zeal, which on, from land to
Speeds the faint foot, and nerves the withered
And the mild Charity, which day by day
Weeps every wound and every stain away, Rears the young bud on every blighted stem, And longs to comfort where she must condemn. With these, through storms, and bitterness, and
In peace and power he holds his onward path, Curbs the fierce soul, and sheathes the murd'rous
And calms the passions he hath ceased to feel.
Yes! he hath triumphed!-while his lips relate The sacred story of his Saviour's fate, While to the search of that tumultuous horde He opens wide the Everlasting Word,
And bids the soul drink deep of wisdom there,
In fond devotion, and in fervent prayer,
In speechless awe the wonder-stricken throng
Check their rude feasting and their barbarous
song:
Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd,
The chief, the slave, the timid, and the proud;
Of various features, and of various dress,
Like their own forest-leaves, confused and num-
berless.
Where shall your temples, where your worship
Gods of the air, and Rulers of the sea?
In the glad dawning of a kinder light,
Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite,
And kneels in gladness on his native plain,
A happier votary at a holier fane.
Beautiful Land, farewell!-when toil and strife
And all the sighs, and all the sins of life,
Shall come about me, when the light of Truth
Shall scatter the bright mists that dazzled youth,
And Memory muse in sadness on the past,
And mourn for pleasure far too sweet to last;
How often shall I long for some green spot,
Where, not remembering, and remembered not,
With no false verse to deck my lying bust,
With no fond tear to vex my mould'ring dust,
This busy brain may find its grassy shrine,
And sleep untroubled in a shade like thine!
"High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters,
Strong walls, rich porches, princelie pallaces,
Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepulchers,
Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries,
Wrought with fair pillours and fine imageries,—
All those (O pitie!) now are turned to dust,
And overgrowne with black oblivion's rust."
SPENSER, The Ruines of Time.
MUSE of old ATHENS! strike thine ancient lute!
Are the strings broken? is the music mute?
Hast thou no tears to gush, no prayers to flow,
Wails for her fate, or curses for her foe?
If still, within some dark and drear recess,
Clothed with sad pomp and spectral loveliness,
Though pale thy cheek, and torn thy flowing
hair,
And reft the roses passion worshipped there,
Thou lingerest, lone, beneath thy laurel bough,
Glad in the incense of a poet's vow,
Bear me, oh, bear me, to the vine-clad hill, Where Nature smiles, and Beauty blushes still, And Memory blends her tale of other years With earnest hopes, deep sighs, and bitter tears!
This Poem obtained the Chancellor's Medal at the Canr budge Commencement, July, 1824.
Desolate Athens! though thy gods are fled, Thy temples silent, and thy glory dead, Though all thou hadst of beautiful and brave Sleep in the tomb, or moulder in the wave, Though power and praise forsake thee and forget,
Desolate Athens, thou art lovely yet!
Around thy walls, in every wood and vale, Thine own sweet bird, the lonely nightingale, Still makes her home: and when the moonlight
Flings its soft magic over brake and bower,
Murmurs her sorrows from her ivy shrine,
Or the thick foliage of the deathless vine.
Where erst Megara chose her fearful crown,
The bright narcissus hangs his clusters down;
And the gay crocus decks with glittering dew
The yellow radiance of his golden hue.
Still thine own olive haunts its native earth,
Green as when Pallas smiled upon its birth;
And still Cephisus pours his sleepless tide,
So clear and calm, along the meadow side,
That you may gaze long hours upon the stream,
And dream at last the poet's witching dream,
That the sweet Muses, in the neighbouring bowers,
Sweep their wild harps, and wreathe their odor.
ous flowers,
And laughing Venus o'er the level plains
Waves her light lash, and shakes her gilded reins.
How terrible is Time! his solemn years, The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears, In silent horror roll!-the gorgeous throne, The pillared arch, the monumental stone, Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes, Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes, Where Wisdom taught, and Valour woke to strife, And Art's creations breathed their mimic life, And the young Poet, when the stars shone high, Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky, Naught now remains, but Nature's placid scene, Heaven's deathless blue, and Earth's eternal
The showers that fall on palaces and graves,
The suns that shine for freemen and for slaves:
Science may sleep in ruin, man in shame,
But nature lives, still lovely, still the same!
The rock, the river,-these have no decay!
The city and its masters,-where are they?
Go forth, and wander through the cold remains
Of fallen statues, and of tottering fanes,
Seek the loved haunts of poet and of sage,
The gay palæstra, and the gaudy stage!
What signs are there? a solitary stone,
A shattered capital with grass o'ergrown,
A mouldering frieze, half hid in ancient dust,
A thistle springing o'er a nameless bust ;--
Yet this was Athens! still a holy spell
Breathes in the dome, and wanders in the dell
|