Near him there stands a Thracian youth, whose head
And limbs elastic had enchain'd the gaze,
But for the anxious chisellings o'er his face,
As he beholds a man of massive brow,
O'ersnow'd by four score years, who like a rock
Placed on a rock, sits there, self-doom'd to die.
'Young man, thou pray'st me to recount my life—
New comer from the Thracian Chersonese,
Not knowing of my labours, or my thoughts,
Nor why I sit here with intent to end
A long life, every day whereof hath wrought
The utmost work my faculties could achieve;
Here, where the bright waves hasten tow'rds my feet,
Not like fierce rows of fangs, but gracious friends
Who bring to me my flowing funeral rites,
Murmuring their deep hymns to eternity.
'I was a rough-bred and unletter'd man,
Born to great strength of sinew and of bone,
With that endurance which outlives defeat;
And as a cestus-bearing athlete fought,
Gaining some batter'd victories, with the applause
Of brutal natures, and of spirits refined,
Needing reaction after mental toils.
With heavy ox-thonged cestus, newly stained
From smashing contest, craving rest and shade,
The grove I pass'd where Zeno held his School.
The vision of that grand head floats before me,
As then it loom'd above the shoulders bare,
And grape-like curls of many a lovely youth
Whose soaring spirit stood with folded wings.
'The hush'd repose—the shadows,—and the rhythm
Of Zeno's eloquent cadences—a flow
Of harmony as of the confluence sweet
When Simoïs and Xanthus murmur'd through
Some temple in the groves of vanish'd Troy,
Melted my nerves, and overcame my heart,
Till a new life-spring gushed into my brain,
Flooding my thoughts, and forcing o'er each sense
A change, which all my bodily strength transformed,
