Poems Sigourney 1834/Scene at Athens, during the Revolution
SCENE AT ATHENS, DURING THE REVOLUTION.
City of Cecrops, there thou art on high,
But not in pride, as when the wondering world
Knelt to thee as a pupil, and the light
That from thy mountains flashed, fell on the globe,
As on a thing opaque. The Moslem draws
His leaguring lines around thee, and afar
'Mid thine Acropolis, is heard the sigh
Of the o'erwearied soldier, famine-struck,
Yet not despairing. He, amid his watch,
Muses on Missolonghi. Even thy vines
Uncultured, wither, and thine olives shrink
From the hot hand of war. No more thy herds
Roam o'er their pasture, and methinks the bee
That toward Hymethus hastens, sadly spreads
A languid wing.
See yon attenuate boy,
With his young tottering sister, who explore
Eager each close recess. Why glean they thus
Those scanty blades of herbage? Do they hide,
And nourish carefully some tender lamb,
Last of the flock? No! no! Their wasted brows
A stronger need bespeak. And there he goes,
A poor snail-gatherer, from whose eye, perchance,
Speaks forth the blood of Pericles.
But lo!
The cry of sudden skirmish, and sharp war,
Peals out at distance. The infuriate Turks
Rush to the guarded wall, and, vaunting, rear
The haughty crescent o'er the cross of Christ.
High Heaven hath mercy. The brief battle swells
Back to the plain again, and sweeping on,
Like the spent whirlwind, sinks. The courser's tramp,
And clash of ataghan, and trumpet blast,
And the fierce shout of man's wild passions die
Upon the tranquil air. But there are strewn
Sad witnesses around: the shivered sword,
The frequent blood-pool, and the severed limb,
While here and there a gorgeous Mussulman
Sleeps in his pomp of armour. The slain Greeks
Do lie with faces heavenward, as becomes
Sons of Miltiades. Methinks the frown
That knits their brows, tells how with Death did strive
The thought of Athens, and their country's fate.
Would this were all!
But there are dens and caves,
And rugged mountain-paths, where those have fallen
Whom love would die to save; and their soft hands
Did woo the sabre's edge, and press it close,
As a long-parted friend.
Ah! might I turn
Forever from such scenes. But in my dreams,
When woe doth tint them, to this hour I see
A beauteous form, which on the encrimsoned turf
Was smitten down, and close those polished arms
Bound to the marble breast, in death's embrace,
A young, unconscious babe.
The ruddy boy
Seemed full of health, and light his sportive hand
'Mid his fair mother's glossy tresses roved,
While his bright lip, not yet to language trained,
Solicited regard. But when no sound
Assured the nursling, and an icebolt seemed
From that dead breast to shoot into his soul,
He raised his cherub head, with such a cry
Of horror, as I deemed no infant heart
Could utter or conceive.
And they who oft
Stood with the unblenching brave, when the thick air
Steamed like a sulphur-furnace, and the earth
Reeked with fresh blood, and thousand parting souls
Sent forth the fearful groan, did say that naught
'Mid all the appalling ministry of war
Had ever moved them like that wailing babe.