ATHENS.
113
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;
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;
