And the sad Nurse who watched his early bloom,
From 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?
O! 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 laurelled 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 labour and the broken rest,
The bitter torture, and the bitterer jest—
By your sweet infants' 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 helmed his locks of gray,
Scorned the safe hearth, and tottered 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 mailed her bosom there,
Clasped the rude helmet on her auburn hair,
Changed love's own smile for valour's fiery glance,
Mirth for the field, the distaff for the lance.
Yes, she was beauteous-that Athenian maid—
When erst she sate within her myrtle shade,
Without a passion and without a thought
Save those which innocence and childhood wrought,—
Delicious hopes, and dreams of life and love,
Young flowers below, and cloudless skies above.
But oh how fair-how more than doubly fair
Thus, with the laurel twined around her hair,—
While at her feet her country's chiefs assemble,
And those soft tones amid the war-cry tremble,
(As some sweet lute creeps eloquently in,
Breaking the tempest of the trumpet's din)
Her corselet fastened with a golden clasp,
Her falchion buckled to her tender grasp,
And quivering lip, flushed cheek, and flashing eye,
All breathing fire, all speaking "Liberty!"
Firm has that struggle been! but is there none
To hymn the triumph, when the fight is won?
O for the harp which once-but through the strings,
Far o'er the sea, the dismal night-wind sings;
Where is the hand that swept it ?—cold and mute
The lifeless Master and the voiceless lute !
The crowded hall, the murmur and the gaze,
The look of envy and the voice of praise,
And friendship's smile, and passion's treasured vow,-
All these are nothing,-life is nothing now!
But the hushed triumph, and the garb of gloom,
The sorrow, deep but mute, around the tomb,
The soldier's silence, and the matron's tear,—
These are the trappings of the sable bier
Which Time corrupts not, Falsehood cannot hide,
Nor Folly scorn, nor Calumny deride.
And "what is writ, is writ!"—the guilt and shame-
All eyes have seen them, and all lips may blame
Where is the record of the wrong that stung,
The charm that tempted, and the grief that wrung?
Let feeble hands, iniquitously just,
Rake up the relics of the sinful dust,
Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot feel,
And Malice brand, what Mercy would conceal;
It matters not! he died as all would die;
Greece had his earliest song, his latest sigh;
And o'er the shrine in which that cold heart sleeps
Glory looks dim, and joyous Conquest weeps.-
The maids of Athens to the spot shall bring
The freshest roses of the new-born spring,
And Spartan boys their first-won wreath shall bear
To bloom round BYRON's urn, or droop in sadness there!
Farewell, sweet ATHENS! thou shalt be again
The sceptred Queen of all thine old domain,
Again be blest in all thy varied charms
Of loveliness and valour, arts and arms.
Forget not then, that, in thine hour of dread,
While the weak battled, and the guiltless bled,
Though Kings and Courts stood gazing on thy fate,
The bad to scoff,-the better to debate,
Here, where the soul of Youth remembers yet
The smiles and tears which Manhood must forget,
In a far land, the honest and the free
Had lips to pray, and hearts to feel, for thee!
NOTE.-Several images in the early part of the poem are selected from passages in the Greek Tragedians;—particularly from the two well-known Choruses in the Edipus Coloneus and the Medea.
The death of Lord Byron took place after the day appointed for the sending in of the exercises; and the allusion to it was of course introduced subsequent to the adjudication of the prize.
"Ille, feris caput inviolabile Parcis,
Liquit Jordanios, turbine raptus, agros.'
SERVANT of God, thy fight is fought; Servant of God, thy crown is wrought: Lingerest thou yet upon the joyless earth? Thy place is now in Heaven's high bowers, Far from this mournful world of ours, Among the sons of light, that have a different birth.
Go to the calm and cloudless sphere
Where doubt, and passion, and dim fear, And black remorse, and anguish have no root; Turn-turn away thy chastened eyes
From sights that make their tears arise,
And shake th' unworthy dust from thy departing foot.
* This Poem obtained one of the Seatonian prizes at the University of Cambridge, A.D. 1830.
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