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Save where some solitary column mourns
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave; 38
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave;
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave,
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave,
While strangers only not regardless pass,
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh « Alas! »
Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild;
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields,
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled,
And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields;
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds,
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air;
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds,
Still in his beam Mendeli’s marbles glare;
Art, glory, freedonı fail, but nature still is fair.
Where'er we tread 't is haunted, holy ground;
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould,
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the muse’s tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt
upon : Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone: Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same;
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord-
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word; 39
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career,
The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow;
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear;
Mountains above, earth's, ocean's plain below;
Death in the front, destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene--what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground,
Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear?
The rifled urn, the violated mound,
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with
with th' Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;
Boast of the aged; lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that 's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely hither let him roam,
gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth:
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide,
And scarce regret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died.
Let such approach this consecrated land,
pass in peace along the magic waste:
But spare its relics—let no busy hand
Deface the scenes, already how defaced!
Not for such purpose were these altars placed :
Revere the remnants nations once revered:
So may our country's name be undisgraced,
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, By every honest joy of love and life endear'd!
XCIV. For thee, who thus in too-protracted song Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading baysIll may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise;
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please when none are left to love.
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one!
Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me;
Who did for me what none beside have done,
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee.
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be!
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home,
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see
Would they had never been, or were to come!
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam!
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved !
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far rernoved!
But time shall tear thy shadow from ine last.
All thou couldst have of nine, stern death! thou hast;
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend:
for thine arrow flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend.
Then must I plunge again into the crowd,
And follow all that peace disdains to seek?
Where revel calls, and laughter, vainly loud,
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak;
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer,
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique;
Smiles form the channel of a future tear,
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's
page, And be alone on earth, as I am now. Before the Chastener humbly let me bow, O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd: Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, And with the ills of eld mine earlier years alloy'd.