The 16th epistle describes the general features of the landscape which I have pointed out at some length; and lastly, the 18th epistle distinctly mentions Mandela as the village, and Digentia as the river near which it stood: the former of which may easily, from description and etymology, be recognised in Bardela, and the latter in Licenza.
Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus,
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus frigore pagus.-Ep. i. 18.
CAMBRIDGE ENGLISH PRIZE POEM,
"High towers, fair temples, goodly theatres,
Strong walls, rich porches, princely palaces,
Large streets, brave houses, sacred sepulchres,
Sure gates, sweet gardens, stately galleries,
Wrought with fair pillars and fine imageries,-
All these (O pity!) now are turned to dust,
And overgrown with black oblivion's rust."
MUSE of old ATHENS! strike thine ancient lute!
Are the strings broken? is the music mute?
Hast thou no tears to gush, no prayers to flow,
Wails for her fate, or curses for her foe?
If still, within some dark and drear recess,
Clothed with sad pomp and spectral loveliness,
Though pale thy cheek, and torn thy flowing hair,
And reft the roses passion worshipped there,
Thou lingerest, lone, beneath thy laurel bough,
Glad in the incense of a poet's vow,
Bear me, oh! bear me, to the vine-clad hill,
Where Nature smiles, and Beauty blushes still,
And Memory blends her tale of other years
With earnest hopes, deep sighs, and bitter tears!
Desolate Athens! though thy Gods are fled,
Thy temples silent, and thy glory dead,
Though all thou hadst of beautiful and brave
Sleep in the tomb, or moulder in the wave,
Though power and praise forsake thee, and forget,
Desolate Athens, thou art lovely yet!
Around thy walls, in every wood and vale,
Thine own sweet bird, the lonely Nightingale,
Still makes her home; and, when the moonlight hour
Flings its soft magic over brake and bower,
Murmurs her sorrows from her ivy shrine,
Or the thick foliage of the deathless vine.
Where erst Megæra chose her fearful crown,
The bright Narcissus hangs his clusters down;
And the gay Crocus decks with glittering dew
The yellow radiance of his golden hue.
Still thine own olive haunts its native earth,
Green, as when Pallas smiled upon its birth;
And still Cephisus pours his sleepless tide,
So clear and calm, along the meadow side,
That you may gaze long hours upon the stream,
And dream at last the poet's witching dream,
That the sweet Muses, in the neighboring bowers,
Sweep their wild harps, and wreath their odorous flowers,
And laughing Venus o'er the level plains
Waves her light lash, and shakes her gilded reins.
How terrible is Time! his solemn years,
The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears,
In silent horror roll!-the gorgeous throne,
The pillared arch, the monumental stone
Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes,
Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes,
Where Wisdom taught, and Valor woke to strife,
And Art's creations breathed their mimic life,
And the young Poet, when the stars shone high,
Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky,
Nought now remains, but Nature's placid scene,
Heaven's deathless blue, and Earth's eternal green,
The showers that fall on palaces and graves,
The suns that shine for freemen and for slaves:
Science may sleep in ruin, man in shame,
But Nature lives, still lovely, still the same!
The rock, the river,-these have no decay!
The city and its masters,-where are they?
Go forth, and wander through the cold remains
Of fallen statues, and of tottering fanes,
Seek the loved haunts of poet and of sage,
The gay palæstra, and the gaudy stage!
What signs are there? a solitary stone,
A shattered capital with grass o'ergrown,
A mouldering frieze half-hid in ancient dust,
A thistle springing o'er a nameless bust,
Yet this was Athens! still a holy spell
Breathes in the dome, and wanders in the dell,
And vanished times and wondrous forms appear,
And sudden echoes charm the waking ear:
Decay itself is drest in glory's gloom,
For every hillock is a hero's tomb,
And every breeze to fancy's slumber brings
The mighty rushing of a spirit's wings.
Oh yes! where glory such as thine hath been,
Wisdom and Sorrow linger round the scene;
And where the hues of faded splendor sleep,
Age kneels to moralise, and youth to weep!
E'en now, methinks, before the eye of day,
The night of ages rolls its mist away,
And the cold dead, the wise, and fair, and proud,
Start from the urn, and rend the tranquil shroud.
Here the wild Muse hath seized her maddening lyre,
With grasp of passion, and with glance of fire,
And called the visions of her awful reign
From death and gloom, to light and life, again.
Hark! the huge Titan on his frozen rock
The Colchian sorceress drains her last brief bliss,
Scoffs at Heaven's King, and braves the lightning-shock,
The thrilling rapture of a mother's kiss,
And the gray Theban raises to the skies
His hueless features, and his rayless eyes.
There blue-eyed Pallas guides the willing feet
Of her loved sages to her calm retreat,
And lights the radiance of her glittering torch
In the rich garden, and the quiet porch :
Lo! the thronged arches, and the nodding trees,
Where Truth and Wisdom strayed with Socrates,
Where round sweet Xenophon rapt myriads hung,
And liquid honey dropped from Plato's tongue!
Oh! thou wert glorious then! thy sway and sword
On earth and sea were dreaded and adored,
And Satraps knelt, and Sovereigns tribute paid,
And prostrate cities trembled and obeyed:
The grim Laconian when he saw thee sighed,
And frowned the venom of his hate and pride;
And the pale Persian dismal vigils kept,
If Rumor whispered Athens where he slept.
And mighty ocean, for thy royal sail,
Hushed the loud wave, and stilled the stormy gale;
And to thy sons Olympian Jove had given
A brighter ether, and a purer heaven.
Those sons of thine were not a mingled host,
From various fathers born, from every coast,
And driven from shore to shore, from toil to toil,
To shun a despot, or to seek a spoil;
Oh no! they drew their unpolluted race
Up from the earth which was their dwelling-place;
And the warm blood, whose blushing streams had run,
Ceaseless and stainless, down from sire to son,
Went clear and brilliant through its hundred rills,
Pure as thy breeze, eternal as thy hills!
Alas! how soon that day of splendor past,
That bright, brief day, too beautiful to last!'
Let other lips tell o'er the oft-told tale ;-
How art succeeds, when spear and falchion fail,
How fierce dissension, impotent distrust,
Caprice, that made it treason to be just,
And crime in some, and listlessness in all,
Shook the great city to her fate and fall,
Till gold at last made plain the tyrant's way,
And bent all hearts in bondage and decay!
I loathe the task; let other lyres record
The might and mercy of the Roman sword, '
The aimless struggle, and the fruitless wile,
The victor's vengeance, and the patron's smile.
Yet, in the gloom of that long, cheerless night,
There gleams one ray to comfort and delight;
One spot of rapture courts the Muse's eye,
In the dull waste of shame and apathy.
Here, where wild Fancy wondrous fictions drew,
And knelt to worship, till she thought them true,-
Here, in the paths which beauteous Error trod,
The great Apostle preached the UNKNOWN GOD!
Silent the crowd were hushed; for his the eye
Which power controls not, sin cannot defy;
His the tall stature, and the lifted hand,
And the fixed countenance of grave command;
And his the voice, which, heard but once, will sink
So deep into the hearts of those that think
That they may live till years and years are gone,
And never lose one echo of its tone.
Yet, when the voice had ceased, a clamour rose,
And mingled tumult rang from friends and foes;
The threat was muttered, and the galling gibe,
By each pale Sophist and his paltry tribe;
The haughty Stoic passed in gloomy state,
The heartless Cynic scowled his grovelling hate,
And the soft Garden's rose-encircled child
Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.-
Tranquil he stood; for he had heard,—could hear,
Blame and reproach with an untroubled ear;
O'er his broad forehead visibly were wrought
The dark deep lines of courage and of thought;
And if the color from his cheek was fled,
Its paleness spoke no passion,-and no dread.
The meek endurance, and the stedfast will,
The patient nerve, that suffers, and is still,
The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod,
And the strong hope, that turns from man to God,—
All these were his; and his firm heart was set,
And knew the hour must come,-but was not yet.
Again long years of darkness and of pain,
The Moslem scimitar, the Moslem chain;
Where Phidias toiled, the turbaned spoilers brood,
And the Mosque glitters, where the Temple stood.
Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear,
Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair!
While the glad music of the boatman's song
On the still air floats happily along,
The light Caique goes bounding on its way
Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay;
And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet
In the gay measure blithely part and meet,
The dark-eyed Maiden scatters through the grove
Her tones of fondness, and her looks of love:
Oh! sweet the lute, the dance! but bondage flings
Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings.
Yet thus, degraded, sunken as thou art,
Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart;
And many a poet, full of fervor, goes,
To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes.
And such was he, the long-lamented one,
England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherished son,
Ill-fated TwEDDELL!-if the flush of youth,
The light of genius, and the glow of truth,
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