BYRON.
157
Then came her bards, her orators and sages;—
Once more he heard those voices that had rung
Down through the vista of succeeding ages:
“The blind old bard of Scio’s isle” there strung
His matchless lyre, and breathed the earliest song:
And now Demosthenes before him stood,
Pouring his tide of eloquence, that strong,
Deep and o’erwhelming, swayed the multitude,
As the invisible wind sways the wild ocean’s flood.
Once more he heard those voices that had rung
Down through the vista of succeeding ages:
“The blind old bard of Scio’s isle” there strung
His matchless lyre, and breathed the earliest song:
And now Demosthenes before him stood,
Pouring his tide of eloquence, that strong,
Deep and o’erwhelming, swayed the multitude,
As the invisible wind sways the wild ocean’s flood.
Armed warriors too were there, their helmets gleaming
On deathless Marathon’s green, sea-girt plain,
That now with Persia’s choicest blood was streaming:
Thermopyle’s “three hundred” fought again;
Again its pass was piled with countless slain,
From the invader’s host, as on that day
When Sparta’s bravest sons had vowed to drain
Their heart’s best blood for her. There, as he lay,
These glorious visions passed, in beautiful array.
On deathless Marathon’s green, sea-girt plain,
That now with Persia’s choicest blood was streaming:
Thermopyle’s “three hundred” fought again;
Again its pass was piled with countless slain,
From the invader’s host, as on that day
When Sparta’s bravest sons had vowed to drain
Their heart’s best blood for her. There, as he lay,
These glorious visions passed, in beautiful array.
The dreamer woke,—he rested there alone,
By that high temple whence had Pallas fled:
Where once she lingered, now the crescent shone,
And round him wandered many a turbanned head,
By that high temple whence had Pallas fled:
Where once she lingered, now the crescent shone,
And round him wandered many a turbanned head,
