Amidst the living tenants, firmly trac'd

On lifeless marble, and on sculptur'd stone:

In them a spirit still survives, in them
The soul of Athens seems to live again.

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Here let us pause, e'en at the vestibule Of Theseus' fane-with what stern majesty It rears its pond'rous and eternal strength, Still perfect, still unchang'd, as on the day When the assembled throng of multitudes With shouts proclaim'd th' accomplish'd work, and fell Prostrate upon their faces to adore

Its marble splendour. How the golden gleam

Of noon-day floats upon its graceful form,
Tinging each grooved shaft, and storied frize,
And Doric triglyph! How the rays amidst
The op'ning columns glanc'd from point to point,
Stream down the gloom of the long portico;
Where link'd in moving mazes youths and maids

Lead the light dance, as erst in joyous hour

of festival! How the broad pediment,

Embrown'd with shadow, frowns above, and spreads
Solemnity and reverential awe!

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Proud monument of old magnificence!
Still thou survivest, nor has envious Time
Impair'd thy beauty, save that it has spread
A deeper tint, and dimm'd the polish'd glare
Of thy refulgent whiteness. Let mine eyes
Feast on thy form, and find at ev'ry glance
Themes for imagination and for thought.
Empires have fallen, yet art thou unchang'd,
And Destiny, whose tide engulphs proud man,
Has roll'd his harmless billows at thy base.
Thy youth beheld thy country's fame, thine age
Beholds her agony; warriors have sought

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Thy sacred walls, and 'gainst these columns rear'd

Their blood-stain'd lances, whilst they swell'd the hymn

Of victory; and now the abject Greek

Sighs on thy steps his superstitious pray'r.

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Thou art the chronicle of ages past,

The lasting testimony; let me call
The spirit that resides within thy stones,

And it will tell me an appalling tale

Of rapine, and convulsion, and dire war,

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Which thou hast witness'd. Mighty monument!

He who first rear'd thy frame believ'd perchance

He rais'd thee for a few short years, a point

In the vast circle of eternity,

Nor did he dream that thou should'st be the pledge 340 Of Grecian genius to the numberless

Myriads unborn, and that beneath thy walls

Children of nations then unknown to fame,

The Gaul, the Briton, and the frozen son
Of polar regions, should together meet,
And on thy pure unsullied glories gaze.

Pause on the tomb of him who sleeps within,
Fancy's fond hope, and Learning's fav'rite child,
Accomplish'd Tweddell—but weep not, his death
Was kind although untimely, for he rests
Upon the shores to Taste and Genius dear.

To him in youthful dreams the Grecian Muse
Deign'd nightly visitation, breathing soft

Her Heav'nly melodies upon his ear;

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He own'd her pow'r, and when his slumbers view'd 355 Her beauteous form bending with loosen'd vest,

And tresses discompos'd upon her lyre,

And heard the well-known accents of her voice

I

Falt'ring despair, he left his native isle,

Join'd in her faint embrace his tears with her's,

And died. She guards his sacred dust, and mourns

His early doom, and leads with tender care,

On each returning year, the solemn choir

Of youths and virgins to his silent grave.

Hence slow descending to the plain, we tread On sacred ground, and press the mingled dust Of heroes and philosophers and bards.

Far, far beneath they sleep, nor does a stone

Or marble column rear its head to shew

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The spot where now they moulder; the Greek drives 370

His yoked oxen, and with careless step

Leans o'er the share, and carols as he guides

Th' obliterating furrow o'er their graves.
But we will not so lightly pass along,

Nor disregard the solemn voice of Time,
Which in the pauses of the mournful gale
Breathes o'er the desolated cemetʼry
His awful warnings to the list'ning ear
Of Meditation; where yon new-turn'd earth
Rises in mounds and swells above the plain,

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