ATHENS.
111
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;
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;
