In these retirements Superstition drew The breath of life; these solitary caves

Round which the wint'ry winds rush murmuring,

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These forked peaks, which far into the vale
Their ev'ning shadows throw, these deep defiles,
Sad with the twilight of impending crags,
Fram'd her young mind to gloomy musings; oft
She trod with fearless step the per❜lous edge
Of the lone precipice, and oft she scal'd
The mountain's brow, to mark the lightning glance
From the thick wreaths of vapour, and the storm
Roll silently below; the peasants caught

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Her incoherent words, and call'd the sounds

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The voice of prophecy; anon they rear'd

A temple, rudely fashion'd from the trunk

Of bay and laurel, and o'erarch'd with leaves,

And there they worshipp'd her, and long ador'd

The virgin whom they hail'd their Deity.

How faded Delphi's glory! Broken walls,
And scatter'd blocks, and ruin'd fragments, tell
What once it was, and with a mournful sound
That thrills the heart, proclaim-' Mortal, behold

F

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All that remains of that imperious Queen

Of cities, whose prophetic voice, sent forth
From the earth's centre, aw'd the trembling world.
Approach, and read on these few crumbling stones,
By the lamp's quiv'ring light, the sacred vow;

• Trace the vast temple's circuit, on whose breast
'The gifts of Kings hung gorgeous; muse awhile

Amidst the ruin'd stadium, where the weed

Waves to the wind; then call up Fancy's pow'r,

'And bid her animate the desert scene.'

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These rocks, now echoing with the eagle's scream, 715 Have oft reverberated the loud pray'rs

Of suppliants, whose long processions, rob’d

In purple garments, scal'd the sacred heights
To pay their adorations at the fane

Of Dian or of Bacchus; far beneath

Apollo's temple, from its massive roof

Of burnish'd gold, threw back the rays of morn,
And on its marble columns, half conceal'd
By clouds of frankincense and myrrh, display'd
Cuirass, and helm, and shield, the spoils of war,
At Marathon and at Platæa won.

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Deep in yon vale the youthful combatants

Practis'd their martial sports, and form'd their limbs
To bear the shock of battle, or at eve,

Resting from labour, made these cliff's resound

With songs of Io Paan,' whilst their bard,

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The mighty Pindar, from his iron throne,
Bowing his hoary head upon his lyre,

Drew forth the raptures of the sacred hymn

In honour of the Pythian Deity.

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Such were her scenes in peace, and when her glens Rang with the trumpet's clangour; when the might Of Persia came, and hop'd with impious rage To tear her trophies from the hallow'd walls, The Gods contended for their holy shrines. Thick darkness veil'd the temples, and the brows Of these stern crags gather'd the storm which burst Upon th' invader; light'nings flash'd from Heav'n, And earthquakes rock'd the ground, and in the shock The voice of her protecting God was heard Calling to vengeance'; then these riven rocks

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Roll'd on the foes and crush'd them: then the clouds, Op'ning their murky folds, pour'd a broad stream

Of dazzling light upon the marble fanes;

And midst the Heav'nly splendour there were seen 750
Forms of departed heroes, driving fierce
The blast of battle on the shrinking foe.

Now gloomy scenes, and recollections dark
Of darker deeds, o'ercloud my soul, as sad
I wind along the road where Laïus bled
Beneath the parricide, and where his tomb,
Rear'd at the meeting of the triple way,
Long told the tale of horror. Hence I turn
To seek the awful caverns, where the dread
Trophonius fram'd his mystic rites, and breath'd
His oracles. O'er Charonea's plain I pass,
And mournful pause upon the fatal spot
Where Grecian Liberty, gath'ring her robe

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Across her breast, fell at the victor's feet;

When to the nuptial feast of Harmony

The Gods descended, and thy walls arose
To the wild raptures of Amphion's lyre.

Fall'n are the tow'rs from which thy chieftains view'd

The wave of crested warriors roaring hoarse,

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Rous'd by the storm of battle; and beheld,

Midst moving clouds of dust, the brazen field

Light'ning with spears; and heard the champed bits
Of coursers murm'ring death, whilst Mars himself,
Rolling along the thunders of his car,

At thy sev'n gates his stern defiance breath'd.

O'er thy time-eaten battlements the sands

Have pass'd, and swept thee from the face of Greece, Unwept, unpitied-for that thou wert found

Rang'd in Oppression's ranks against the band

Of sacred Liberty, and thy dark soul
Was sunk in sluggishness, save when the voice
Of Leuctra's chief, or the Dircæan swan,
Rous'd thy deep slumbers; whilst the sacred fire,
Which beam'd with steady lustre in their breasts,
Kindled a momentary flame in thee,
Which died as soon as kindled, gliding by,

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