ATHENS.
109
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,
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,
