TO DR. WALDSTEIN
The lettered Roman aired his Greek,
Drew forth his scrolls from shelf and panel,—
(So Gray and Walpole knew to speak,
To read, their French brought over Channel);
Untomb those sealed armaria! Let
Your hand among their riches wander,
Until, half-dazed, your eyes are set
Upon—some play of great Menander!
Byzantium's Christian priests, they say,
With those rare jestings heaped the pyre;
Lest ruthless, grim Vesuvius may
Restore them to the world's desire.
The mask, the marble and the bronze,
The eagle from Bellona's eyrie,—
Light trophies these to him who cons,
First of his time, those lost papyri,—
Whose sight takes in at last complete
The lines to Sappho's smile and tresses
Alcæus wrote—yet made retreat
In awe, as he himself confesses,—
Or ... thought to wake the pulse's thrill!...
Finds but one ode, all fire and air,
By Her,—one hymn diviner still
Than that ecstatic Lesbian prayer.
There's Pindar,—haply from the mound
You'll lift a six-and-fortieth pæan,
Or, blest indeed, disclose thrice-crowned—
Ye stars!—a trilogue Sophoclean;
Yet his, be sure, the loftiest meed
Whose spell shall split the Earth with wonder,
And bid us see Prometheus Freed,
That vanished Titan, loom from under.
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