First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word—
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 rere!
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 the 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,
And 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.
XXVIII. THE DYING GLADIATOR.
I SEE before me the gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand,—his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower, and now
The arena swims around him:-he is gone,
Ere ceas'd th' inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay;
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother—he their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday-
All this rush'd with his blood.-Shall he expire.
And unaveng'd?-Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!
XXIX. THE ARAB MAID'S SONG.
FLY to the desert, fly with me!
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough-but, smiling there,
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet; nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare-but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs,
As o'er the marble courts of kings!
Then come!-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree;
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,—
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought!
As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone,
New-as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome-as if loved for years!
Then fly with me !—if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come!-if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,—
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found!
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place;
Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine.
XXX.-ODE TO ELOQUENCE.
HEARD ye those loud-contending waves,
That shook Cecropia's pillar'd state?
ye
the mighty from their graves
Look up, and tremble at her fate?
Who shall calm the angry storm?
Who the mighty task perform,
And bid the raging tumult cease?
See the son of Hermes rise,
With Syren tongue, and speaking eyes,
Hush the noise, and soothe to peace!
See the olive branches waving
O'er Ilissus' winding stream,
Their lovely limbs the Naiads laving,
The Muses smiling by, supreme!
See the nymphs and swains advancing,
To harmonious measures dancing:
Grateful Io Pæans rise
To thee, O Power! who can inspire
Soothing words—or words of fire,
And shook thy plumes in Attic skies!
Lo! from the regions of the north,
The reddening storm of battle pours,
Rolls along the trembling earth,
Fastens on the Olynthian towers.
Where rests the sword? where sleep the brave? Awake! Cecropia's ally save
From the fury of the blast: Burst the storm on Phocis' walls,
Rise! or Greece for ever falls;
Up! or freedom breathes her last.
The jarring States, obsequious now,
View the patriot's hand on high;
Thunder gathering on his brow,
Lightning flashing from his eye.
Borne by the tide of words along,
One voice, one mind. inspire the throng:
"To arms! to arms! to arms!" they cry;
'Grasp the shield, and draw the sword; Lead us to Philippi's lord;
Let us conquer him, or die!"
Ah, Eloquence! thou wast undone;
Wast from thy native country driven,
When Tyranny eclipsed the sun,
And blotted out the stars of heaven!
When Liberty from Greece withdrew,
And o'er the Adriatic flew
To where the Tiber pours his urn—
She struck the rude Tarpeian rock,
Sparks were kindled by the stroke-
Again thy fires began to burn!
Now shining forth, thou mad'st compliant
The Conscript Fathers to thy charms,
Roused the world-bestriding giant,
Sinking fast in Slavery's arms.
I see thee stand by Freedom's fane,
Pouring the persuasive strain,
Giving vast conceptions birth!
Hark! I hear thy thunders sound,
Shake the Forum round and round,
Shake the pillars of the earth!
First-born of Liberty divine!
Put on Religion's bright array:
Speak! and the starless grave shall shine
The portal of eternal day!
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