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(From Ruins of Many Lands)
O LAND of Solon, Plato, and of men | |
| Whose glorious like earth ne’er shall see again! | |
| Thou art not dead,—thy every plain and hill | |
| Sends forth a voice, and teems with spirits still! | |
| What though no more they teach, with valor burn? | 5 |
| Thy sage and warrior breathe from out the urn, | |
| And each lone wreck that moss and ivies bind | |
| Points to bright days, and speaks of godlike mind. | |
| But rock-crowned Athens calls our thoughts away, | |
| There sits she, lovely in her calm decay, | 10 |
| The eye of Greece, Fame’s daughter sad and lone, | |
| The queen of Wisdom on her mouldering throne. | |
| How thrill we, entering slow the western gate, | |
| To climb yon mount where mightiest sages sate! | |
| The rostrum, carved from stone, is seen this hour, | 15 |
| Where Eloquence distilled her silver shower. | |
| There on Mars Hill stood Paul with flashing eye, | |
| Like some bright form just lighted from the sky, | |
| Marvelled so blind learned Athens still should be, | |
| Admired but mourned her Pagan brilliancy. * * * * * | 20 |
| What lofty columns near Ilissus’ stream | |
| Tower o’er each wreck, and glitter in the beam? | |
| Temple of Jove! around thy ruined site | |
| Dogs lurk by day, the owlet hoots by night; | |
| Where kings and heroes wont deep awe to feel, | 25 |
| Not one poor trembler now is found to kneel. | |
| But pass we other scenes, where living men | |
| Have reared their homes,—yes, Athens lives again, | |
| Called from the gloom of strong Oppression’s grave, | |
| No more the Moslem’s scorn, the tyrant’s slave; | 30 |
| Onward the pilgrim wends, and lifts his eyes | |
| Where the proud rock of Cecrops courts the skies, | |
| Bearing the pile, whose beauty well may claim | |
| Homage from taste, and challenge endless fame. | |
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| We climb the ancient steep, which chief and sage | 35 |
| Mounted before, through many a changeful age; | |
| Where Cimon blessed the gods that Greece was free, | |
| And Thrasybulus shouted “Victory!”— | |
| From Alpine mountains view the world below, | |
| Towns, waving woods, and streams meandering slow; | 40 |
| Dim is the scene to that which greets thee here, | |
| Prompting to worship, waking rapture’s tear. | |
| Yes, rise, fair mount! the bright blue heavens to kiss, | |
| Stoop not thy pride, august Acropolis! | |
| Thy brow still wears its crown of columns gray, | 45 |
| Beauteous in ruin, stately in decay. | |
| Two thousand years o’er earth have spread their pall, | |
| Not yet, thy boast, Minerva’s shrine shall fall: | |
| In spite of rapine, fire, and War’s red arm, | |
| Enough remains to awe us, and to charm; | 50 |
| Glory and Phidias’ shade the relic keep, | |
| Shield as they watch, and strengthen as they weep. | |
| The Doric columns, wrought from fairest stone, | |
| Severe but graceful, round the cella thrown, | |
| The lofty front, the frieze where sculptures shine, | 55 |
| The long, long architrave’s majestic line, | |
| Dazzle the eye with beauty’s rich excess, | |
| O’erpower the mind by too much loveliness. * * * * * | |
| Athens! thou birthplace of the great, the free! | |
| Though bowed thy power, and dimmed thy name may be, | 60 |
| Though old Renown’s once dazzling sun hath set, | |
| Fair beams the star of Memory o’er thee yet. | |
| City! where sang the bard, and taught the sage, | |
| Thy shrines may fall, thou ne’er wilt know old age; | |
| Fresh shall thy image glow in every heart, | 65 |
| And but with Time’s last hour thy fame depart. | |
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