The grim Laconian when he saw thee sighed,
And frown'd the venom of his hate and pride;
And the pale Persian dismal vigils kept,
If Rumor whispered 'Athens!' where he slept;
And mighty Ocean, for thy royal sail,

Hush'd the loud wave, and still'd the stormy gale;
And to thy sons Olympian Jove had given

A brighter ether, and a purer heaven.
Those sons of thine were not a mingled host,
From various fathers born, from every coast,
And driven from shore to shore, from toil to toil,
To shun a despot, or to seek a spoil;

Oh, no! they drew their unpolluted race

Up from the earth which was their dwelling-place,

And the warm blood, whose blushing streams had run
Ceaseless and stainless, down, from sire to son,
Went clear and brilliant through its hundred rills
Pure as thy breeze, eternal as thy hills!

Alas! How soon that day of splendor past,
That bright, brief day, too beautiful to last!
Let other lips tell o'er the oft-told tale;—
How art succeeds, when spear and falchion fail,
How fierce dissension, impotent distrust,
Caprice that made it treason to be just,
And crime in some, and listlessness in all,
Shook the great city to her fate and fall,
Till gold at last made plain the tyrant's way,
And bent all hearts in bondage and decay!
I loathe the task! let other lyres record
The might and mercy of the Roman sword,

The aimless struggle, and the fruitless wile,
The victor's vengeance, and the patron's smile.
Yet, in the gloom of that long, cheerless night,
There gleams one ray to comfort and delight;
One spot of rapture courts the Muse's eye,
In the dull waste of shame and apathy.

Here, where wild Fancy wondrous fictions drew,
And knelt to worship, till she thought them true,-
Here, in the paths which beauteous Error trod,
The great Apostle preached the UNKNOWN GOD!

Silent the crowd were hush'd; for his the eye
Which power controls not, sin cannot defy;
His the tall stature, and the lifted hand,
And the fix'd countenance of grave command;
And his the voice, which heard but once, will sink
So deep into the hearts of those that think,
That they may live till years and years are gone,
And never lose one echo of its tone.

Yet, when the voice had ceased, a clamor rose,
And mingled tumult rang from friends and foes;
The threat was mutter'd, and the galling gibe,
By each pale Sophist and his paltry tribe;
The haughty Stoic pass'd in gloomy state,
The heartless Cynic scowl'd his grov'lling hate,
And the soft garden's rose-encircled child
Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.-
Tranquil he stood; for he had heard,—could hear,
Blame and reproach with an untroubled ear;
O'er his broad forehead visibly were wrought
The dark deep lines of courage and of thought;

And if the color from his cheek was fled,
Its paleness spoke no passion,-and no dread.
The meek endurance, and the steadfast will,
The patient nerve, that suffers, and is still,
The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod,
And the strong hope, that turns from man to God,—
All these were his; and his firm heart was set,
And knew the hour must come,-but was not yet.

Again long years of darkness and of pain,
The Moslem cimeter, the Moslem chain;
Where Phidias toil'd, the turban'd spoilers brood,
And the Mosque glitters where the Temple stood.
Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear,
Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair!
While the glad music of the boatman's song
On the still air floats happily along.

The light caique goes bounding on its way.
Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay;
And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet
In the gay measure blithely part and meet,
The dark-eyed maiden scatters through the grove
Her tones of fondness, and her looks of love:
Oh, sweet the lute, the dance! but bondage flings
Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings;
Yet, thus degraded, sunken as thou art,
Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart;
And many a poet, full of fervor, goes,
To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes.

And such was he, the long-lamented one,
England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherish'd son,
Ill-fated TWEDDELL!-If the flush of youth,

The light of genius, and the glow of truth,

If all that fondness honors and adores,
If all that grief remembers and deplores,
Could bid the spoiler turn his scythe away,
Or snatch one flower from darkness and decay,
Thou hadst not mark'd, fair city, his decline,
Nor rear'd the marble in thy silent shrine-
The cold, ungrieving marble-to declare
How many hopes lie desolated there.

We will not mourn for him! ere human ill
Could blight one bliss, or make one feeling chill,
In Learning's pure embrace he sunk to rest,
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast:
Peace to his hallow'd shade! his ashes dwell
In that sweet spot he loved in life so well,
And the sad Nurse who watch'd his early bloom,
And this his home, points proudly to his tomb.

But oft, when twilight sleeps on earth and sea,
Beautiful Athens! we will weep for thee;
For thee, and for thine offspring!-will they bear
The dreary burthen of their own despair,
Till nature yields, and sense and life depart
From the torn sinews and the trampled heart?
Oh! by the mighty shades that dimly glide
Where Victory beams upon the turf or tide,
By those who sleep at Marathon in bliss,
By those who fell at glorious Salamis,

By every laurell'd brow and holy name,
By every thought of freedom and of fame,
By all ye bear, by all that ye have borne,
The blow of anger, and the glance of scorn,
The fruitless labor, and the broken rest,
The bitter torture, and the bitterer jest,
By your sweet infant's unavailing cry,
Your sister's blush, your mother's stifled sigh,
By all the tears that ye have wept, and weep,-
Break, Sons of Athens, break your weary sleep!

Yea, it is broken!-Hark, the sudden shock
Rolls on from wave to wave, from rock to rock;
Up, for the Cross and Freedom! far and near
Forth starts the sword, and gleams the patriot spear,
And bursts the echo of the battle song,

Cheering and swift, the banded hosts along.

On, Sons of Athens! let your wrongs and woes
Burnish the blades, and nerve the whistling bows;
Green be the laurel, ever blest the meed
Of him that shines to-day in martial deed,
And sweet his sleep beneath the dewy sod,
Who falls for fame, his country, and his God!

The hoary sire has helm'd his lock of gray,
Scorn'd the safe hearth, and totter'd to the fray :
The beardless boy has left his gilt guitar,
And bared his arm for manhood's holiest war.
E'en the weak girl has mail'd her bosom there,
Clasped the rude helmet on her auburn hair,