And tow'rs of strength were men, high-minded men,
Who heard the cry of danger with more joy
Than softer natures listen to the voice
Of pleasure; who with unremitting toil In chase, in battle, or athletic course, To fierceness steel'd their native hardihood, Who sunk in death as tranquil as in sleep, And hemm'd by hostile myriads, never turn'd To flight, but closer drew before their breasts The massy buckler, firmer fix'd the foot,
Bit the writh'd lip, and where they struggled fell. And yet the Muse shall raise no song of grief For Sparta's children; she can pass unmov'd Amidst her desolation, nor bewail The blow that laid her prostrate in the dust. For she remembers, that her laws were fram'd To blast and not to cherish the young germ Of feeling, to repress Affection's tear, And crush each tender charity; she knows
That all her sons were deaf to Wisdom's voice,
Breathing the precepts of Philosophy,
And that the lyre of eloquence and song
Sounded for them in vain. She reads appall'd That with malignant rage they led the shock Of mailed war amidst the sylvan scenes Where Fancy dwelt, and blew with insult rude The trump of Discord in the marble schools Where Science gather'd her Athenian sons. The Muse's harp is silent-Warriors sing
The dirge of those who sleep in Sparta's tombs.
They sleep-but still their spirit walks the earth;
Their martial shouts are heard from Maina's rocks, 525
Where, still unconquer'd thousands rally round
The of Grecian Freedom. Hardy race,
How wild the dauntless glances of your eye
Midst slav'ry's tears; how sweet your war-notes swell
Upon the ear, long us'd to slav'ry's moan!
Sparta's true progeny! whose daughters leave
The distaff for the sword, and in the march
Of war outstrip their husbands and their sires. Swift rushing from his fount of mountain-rock Alpheus murmurs; now in narrow bed, With cliffs o'erarch'd, thro' dells of brownest shade Imbower'd with lofty platanes; now more broad
Expanding o'er luxuriant plains, where copse And thicket cluster on his even banks;
Now plunging headlong thro' a dusky cave He winds his subterraneous course, and thence Emerging, dimples o'er his shoals of sand, Thro' groves of oak and chesnut, crowding close The green recesses of some peaceful vale. Rolling thro' Pisa's plain he sinks engulph'd Beneath the ocean's wave, and joyful seeks His Arethusa on Sicilia's shores.
Mourn for Olympia-o'er her prostrate fanes Tread lightly, and if e'er the wint'ry stream Wash from its crumbling banks the bruised helm, Or spear-head blunted in the shock of arms, Guard them in rev'rence of the mighty dead. Mourn for Olympia—the loud shouts that burst Along her plain, when round the victor's brows The olive-wreath was twin'd, no longer ring; And the harp's strains, which from assembled Greece Drew the soft tears of sympathy and joy,
Are silent as the chambers of the tomb.
Warm'd into life, and cherish'd by the breath
Of popular applause, amidst these schools
The Arts put forth their tender shoots, and bloom'd
With more than mortal beauty. Sculpture's hand Rounded the marble to a living form;
Painting suspended her heroic tales
The charm of fancy, and, unskill'd himself In art, admir'd the artist's magic pow'rs. Thrice happy Britain, if such taste were thine; But thou, enwrapp'd in airy dreams of pow'r, Or grov'lling in the base pursuit of wealth, Hear'st not the charmer's voice, or turn'st away Thine eye from beauties which thou can'st not feel. Yet the neglected Muse shall have her day Of triumph, when thy long concerted plans
Of empire are forgotten; when the voice
Which in thy senate now proclaims itself The oracle of wisdom, is expos'd,
Futile and vain, and all the babbling swarm, The insects of a day, that buzz amidst Thy legislative domes are heard no more, Then shall she burst the overwhelming cloud Of ignorance, which now obscures her ray,
And bear thy name to the remotest age.
Here where Selinus winds his murm'ring stream, 590 Midst swelling hills with fir and olive rob'd, The Philosophic Warrior' sought repose; Here his life's day, long overcast with storms, Sunk tranquil to its eve amidst the groves Of Scilluns; here he found that happiness, Which in the busy world's tumultuous throng,
In courts of monarchs, and in battle's din,
He sought in vain. His lowly dwelling rose
Within a valley, on a verdant lawn;
And as the sage beneath his aged vine
Sat 'midst his children, his delighted eye
Rang'd o'er a beauteous scene of wood and dale,
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