"High towers, fair temples, goodly theatres, Strong walls, rich porches, princely palaces, Large streets, brave houses, sacred sepulchres, Sure gates, sweet gardens, stately galleries, Wrought with fair pillars and fine imageries,— All these (O pity!) now are turned to dust, And overgrown with black oblivion's rust." Spenser.
Muse of old Athens! strike thine ancient lute! Are the strings broken? is the music mute? Hast thou no tears to gush, no prayers to flow, Wails for her fate, or curses for her foe? If still, within some dark and drear recess, Clothed with sad pomp and spectral loveliness, Though pale thy cheek, and torn thy flowing hair, And reft the roses passion worshipp'd there, Thou lingerest, lone, beneath thy laurel bough, Glad in the incense of a poet's vow, Bear me, oh, bear me, to the vine-clad hill, Where Nature smiles, and Beauty blushes still, And Memory blends her tale of other years With earnest hopes, deep sighs, and bitter tears! Desolate Athens! though thy gods are fled, Thy temples silent, and thy glory dead, Though all thou hadst of beautiful and brave Sleep in the tomb, or moulder in the wave, Though power and praise forsake thee, and forget, Desolate Athens, thou art lovely yet! Around thy walls, in every wood and vale, Thine own sweet bird, the lonely nightingale, Still makes her home; and, when the moonlight hour Flings its soft magic over brake and bower, Murmurs her sorrows from her ivy shrine, Or the thick foliage of the deathless vine. Where erst Megæra chose her fearful crown, The bright narcissus hangs his clusters down; And the gay crocus decks with glittering dew The yellow radiance of his golden hue. Still thine own olive haunts its native earth, Green as when Pallas smiled upon its birth; And still Cephisus pours his sleepless tide, So clear and calm, along the meadow side, That you may gaze long hours upon the stream, And dream at last the poet's witching dream, That the sweet Muses, in the neighbouring bowers, Sweep their wild harps, and wreathe their odorous flowers, And laughing Venus o'er the level plains Waves her light lash, and shakes her gilded reins. How terrible is Time! his solemn years, The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears, In silent horror roll!—the gorgeous throne, The pillar'd arch, the monumental stone, Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes, Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes, Where Wisdom taught, and Valour woke to strife, And Art's creations breathed their mimic life, And the young Poet, when the stars shone high, Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky, Nought now remains, but Nature's placid scene, Heaven's deathless blue, and Earth's eternal green, The showers that fall on palaces and graves, The suns that shine for freemen and for slaves: Science may sleep in ruin, man in shame, But Nature lives, still lovely, still the same! The rock, the river,—these have no decay! The city and its masters,—where are they? Go forth, and wander through the cold remains Of fallen statues, and of tottering fanes, Seek the loved haunts of poet and of sage, The gay palæstra, and the gaudy stage! What signs are there? a solitary stone, A shatter'd capital with grass o'ergrown, A mouldering frieze, half-hid in ancient dust, A thistle springing o'er a nameless bust;— Yet this was Athens! still a holy spell Breathes in the dome, and wanders in the dell, And vanish'd times and wondrous forms appear, And sudden echoes charm the waking ear: Decay itself is drest in glory's gloom, For every hillock is a hero's tomb, And every breeze to fancy's slumber brings The mighty rushing of a spirit's wings. Oh, yes! where glory such as thine hath been, Wisdom and Sorrow linger round the scene; And where the hues of faded splendour sleep, Age kneels to moralize, and youth to weep! E'en now, methinks, before the eye of day, The night of ages rolls its mist away, And the cold dead, the wise, and fair, and proud, Start from the urn, and rend the tranquil shroud. Here the wild Muse hath seized her madd'ning lyre, With grasp of passion, and with glance of fire, And called the visions of her awful reign From death and gloom, to life and light again. Hark! the huge Titan on his frozen rock Scoffs at Heaven's King, and braves the lightning-shock, The Colchian sorc'ress drains her last brief bliss, The thrilling rapture of a mother's kiss, And the gray Theban raises to the skies His hueless features, and his rayless eyes. There blue-eyed Pallas guides the willing feet Of her loved sages to her calm retreat, And lights the radiance of her glitt'ring torch In the rich garden and the quiet porch: Lo! the throng'd arches, and the nodding trees, Where Truth and Wisdom stray'd with Socrates, Where round sweet Xenophon rapt myriads hung, And liquid honey dropp'd from Plato's tongue! Oh! thou wert glorious then! thy sway and sword On earth and sea were dreaded and adored, And Satraps knelt, and Sovereigns tribute paid, And prostrate cities trembled and obeyed: The grim Laconian when he saw thee sighed, And frown'd the venom of his hate and pride; And the pale Persian dismal vigils kept, If Rumour whispered 'Athens!' where he slept; And mighty Ocean, for thy royal sail, Hush'd the loud wave, and still'd the stormy gale; And to thy sons Olympian Jove had given A brighter ether, and a purer heaven. Those sons of thine were not a mingled host, From various fathers born, from every coast, And driven from shore to shore, from toil to toil. To shun a despot, or to seek a spoil; Oh, no! they drew their unpolluted race Up from the earth which was their dwelling-place; And the warm blood, whose blushing streams had run, Ceaseless and stainless, down, from sire to son. Went clear and brilliant through its hundred rills, Pure as thy breeze, eternal as thy hills! Alas! how soon that day of splendour past, That bright, brief day, too beautiful to last! Let other lips tell o'er the oft-told tale;— How art succeeds, when spear and falchion fail, How fierce dissension, impotent distrust, Caprice, that made it treason to be just, And crime in some, and listlessness in all, Shook the great City to her fate and fall, Till gold at last made plain the tyrant's way, And bent all hearts in bondage and decay! I loathe the task; let other lyres record The might and mercy of the Roman sword, The aimless struggle, and the fruitless wile, The victor's vengeance, and the patron's smile. Yet, in the gloom of that long, cheerless night, There gleams one ray to comfort and delight; One spot of rapture courts the Muse's eye, In the dull waste of shame and apathy. Here, where wild Fancy wondrous fictions drew, And knelt to worship, till she thought them true,— Here, in the paths which beauteous Error trod, The great Apostle preached the Unknown God! Silent the crowd were hush'd: for his the eye Which power controls not, sin cannot defy; His the tall stature, and the lifted hand, And the fix'd countenance of grave command; And his the voice, which heard but once, will sink So deep into the hearts of those that think, That they may live till years and years are gone, And never lose one echo of its tone. Yet, when the voice had ceased, a clamour rose, And mingled tumult rang from friends and foes; The threat was mutter'd, and the galling gibe, By each pale Sophist and his paltry tribe; The haughty Stoic pass'd in gloomy state, The heartless Cynic scowl'd his grov'lling hate, And the soft garden's rose-encircled child Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.— Tranquil he stood; for he had heard,—could hear, Blame and reproach with an untroubled ear; O'er his broad forehead visibly were wrought The dark deep lines of courage and of thought; And if the colour from his cheek was fled, Its paleness spoke no passion,—and no dread. The meek endurance, and the steadfast will, The patient nerve, that suffers, and is still, The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod, And the strong hope, that turns from man to God,— All these were his; and his firm heart was set, And knew the hour must come,—but was not yet. Again long years of darkness and of pain, The Moslem scymetar, the Moslem chain; Where Phidias toil'd, the turban'd spoilers brood, And the Mosque glitters where the Temple stood. Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear, Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair! While the glad music of the boatman's song On the still air floats happily along. The light caique goes bounding on its way Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay; And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet In the gay measure blithely part and meet, The dark-eyed maiden scatters through the grove Her tones of fondness, and her looks of love: Oh, sweet the lute, the dance! but bondage flings Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings; Yet, thus degraded, sunken as thou art, Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart; And many a poet, full of fervour, goes, To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes. And such was he, the long-lamented one, England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherish'd son, Ill-fated Tweddell!—If the flush of youth, The light of genius, and the glow of truth, If all that fondness honours and adores, If all that grief remembers and deplores, Could bid the spoiler turn his scythe away, Or snatch one flower from darkness and decay, Thou hadst not mark'd, fair City, his decline, Nor rear'd the marble in thy silent shrine— The cold, ungrieving marble—to declare How many hopes lie desolated there. We will not mourn for him! ere human ill Could blight one bliss, or make one feeling chill, In Learning's pure embrace he sunk to rest, Like a tired child upon his mother's breast: Peace to his hallow'd shade! his ashes dwell In that sweet spot he loved in life so well, And the sad Nurse who watch'd his early bloom, And 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? Oh! 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 laurell'd 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 infant's unvailing 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 helm'd his locks of gray, Scorn'd the safe hearth, and totter'd 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 mail'd her bosom there, Clasp'd 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 corslet fasten'd with a golden clasp,— Her falchion buckled to her tender grasp,— And quiv'ring lip, flush'd 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? Oh 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 treasur'd vow,— All these are nothing,—life is nothing now! But the hush'd 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 reliques 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 Œdipus 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 has, of course, been introduced subsequent to the adjudication of the prize.
