IONIA.
Ye lands and immemorial isles, that bearThe name of Ion, who with besom madeOf laurel-boughs the Sun-god’s temple swept—Ye golden climes, to poesy and loveMost dear, oases mid the wastes of Eld,Where, in her lonely retrospective flight,Bright-haired Mnemosyne delights to pause,By matchless shapes of loveliness beguiled!Within your bounds the plastic hand of artFirst made the mountain’s marble entrails teemWith images of beauty, lining allYour sea-washed strand with fair columnar cities,Built high of glossiest sun-enamelled stone.Forever o’er your myrtle-shaded vales,Reclined on summer clouds, did AphroditeAnd golden Eros lean, kindling the airWith passion’s rosy glow. In all the earthBeside, did visible nature never wearRobes so resplendent. Through the luminous foldsOf your transparent atmosphere appearedUnequalled prospects to enchant the eye;Marmorean cities rising o’er the vergeOf halcyon seas, and promontories crownedWith tombs heroical, or glistening shrines;And breezy mountains swathed with silver clouds,The watchtowers blue of broad-eyed Jove; whence heThe limitless low-lying earth surveyed,The towns of mortal men, their fights and toils.Oft from your shore the fisherman descriedThe smoke of conflagration climbing slow,In graceful spires, far up the summer air,From some beleaguered city of the isles;And white-robed argosies from wealthy Tyre,Rising and falling on the sparkling waves,Voyaging with orient merchandise to towns,Whose turrets glittered in the western beam.Within your cities, villages, and fields,Abode a graceful populace, with ritesAnd manners beautiful as e’er adornedThe imagined landscape of a poet’s dream;The captive maid, descending with her urnTo shady spring, or cistern scooped from stone,And flowing with cool water to the brim;The royal virgin, seated far withinSome gorgeous recess of the kingly dome,Plying with busy hand her dædal loom;The wandering minstrel, slumbering fast at noonBy fountain-side or stream, or harping loudIn palace hall, and crowded market-place;The frequent song of Hymen, saffron-robed,Resounding through the torchlit street, what timeThe star of love, thrice welcome Hesper, roseAbove some immemorial mountain’s brow;The youthful vintagers, by moonlight paleBearing the grapes in osier talarisks,While on his lute some beardless minstrel playedThe Lay of Linus, regal boy, of allThe sons of men most musical, whose bloomWas scorched and withered by the solar beam;The rustic temple, hidden deep in grovesAnd pleasant solitudes, beneath whose domeThe village youth their glowing pæans sang;And over all the dark blue heavens sublime,Where from their sky-pavilions brightest shoneThe ancient stars and constellations, hymnedBy eldest bards—the sworded Titan namedOrion, with the starry sisterhoods,Hyads and Pleïades in clusters bright.Cradled amid your kindly influences,The soft Ionian fancy wantoned wildIn warm voluptuous dreams of loveliness,Pouring its inspirations in a tongueInimitable—a honeyed dialect—Protean, flexible, all various,Whose vowelled cadences could flow as smoothAs amber streams, or raise and modulateTheir intonations to the ocean’s deepSonorous surges chafing with the strand.Indelible and burning Rune, its wordsUpon the scroll of blind MeonidesSurvive, and with their fluent numbers shameThe harsher languages of later days.Nor in the Carian’s golden chronicle,Though not arranged in metrical array,Sound they less sweet. Alas! the glorious tribes,Over whose chiselled lips they wont to rollIn honeyed song and fiery eloquence,Have vanished. Hushed the lyres of Ibycus,Bacchylides, and Sappho[1]starry-eyed,And that delicious lute the Teian playedWithin the halls of King Polycrates,While round him, bound with leafed and roseal wreaths,Mid fountain spray and snowy columns, dancedIonia’s raven-tressed voluptuous girls.Minstrel of beauty, love, and vinous joy,Thy festal spirit yet survives on earth,Clad in a garment of enduring verse,The asbestine robe of all-immortal song!
Ye lands and immemorial isles, that bearThe name of Ion, who with besom madeOf laurel-boughs the Sun-god’s temple swept—Ye golden climes, to poesy and loveMost dear, oases mid the wastes of Eld,Where, in her lonely retrospective flight,Bright-haired Mnemosyne delights to pause,By matchless shapes of loveliness beguiled!Within your bounds the plastic hand of artFirst made the mountain’s marble entrails teemWith images of beauty, lining allYour sea-washed strand with fair columnar cities,Built high of glossiest sun-enamelled stone.Forever o’er your myrtle-shaded vales,Reclined on summer clouds, did AphroditeAnd golden Eros lean, kindling the airWith passion’s rosy glow. In all the earthBeside, did visible nature never wearRobes so resplendent. Through the luminous foldsOf your transparent atmosphere appearedUnequalled prospects to enchant the eye;Marmorean cities rising o’er the vergeOf halcyon seas, and promontories crownedWith tombs heroical, or glistening shrines;And breezy mountains swathed with silver clouds,The watchtowers blue of broad-eyed Jove; whence heThe limitless low-lying earth surveyed,The towns of mortal men, their fights and toils.Oft from your shore the fisherman descriedThe smoke of conflagration climbing slow,In graceful spires, far up the summer air,From some beleaguered city of the isles;And white-robed argosies from wealthy Tyre,Rising and falling on the sparkling waves,Voyaging with orient merchandise to towns,Whose turrets glittered in the western beam.Within your cities, villages, and fields,Abode a graceful populace, with ritesAnd manners beautiful as e’er adornedThe imagined landscape of a poet’s dream;The captive maid, descending with her urnTo shady spring, or cistern scooped from stone,And flowing with cool water to the brim;The royal virgin, seated far withinSome gorgeous recess of the kingly dome,Plying with busy hand her dædal loom;The wandering minstrel, slumbering fast at noonBy fountain-side or stream, or harping loudIn palace hall, and crowded market-place;The frequent song of Hymen, saffron-robed,Resounding through the torchlit street, what timeThe star of love, thrice welcome Hesper, roseAbove some immemorial mountain’s brow;The youthful vintagers, by moonlight paleBearing the grapes in osier talarisks,While on his lute some beardless minstrel playedThe Lay of Linus, regal boy, of allThe sons of men most musical, whose bloomWas scorched and withered by the solar beam;The rustic temple, hidden deep in grovesAnd pleasant solitudes, beneath whose domeThe village youth their glowing pæans sang;And over all the dark blue heavens sublime,Where from their sky-pavilions brightest shoneThe ancient stars and constellations, hymnedBy eldest bards—the sworded Titan namedOrion, with the starry sisterhoods,Hyads and Pleïades in clusters bright.Cradled amid your kindly influences,The soft Ionian fancy wantoned wildIn warm voluptuous dreams of loveliness,Pouring its inspirations in a tongueInimitable—a honeyed dialect—Protean, flexible, all various,Whose vowelled cadences could flow as smoothAs amber streams, or raise and modulateTheir intonations to the ocean’s deepSonorous surges chafing with the strand.Indelible and burning Rune, its wordsUpon the scroll of blind MeonidesSurvive, and with their fluent numbers shameThe harsher languages of later days.Nor in the Carian’s golden chronicle,Though not arranged in metrical array,Sound they less sweet. Alas! the glorious tribes,Over whose chiselled lips they wont to rollIn honeyed song and fiery eloquence,Have vanished. Hushed the lyres of Ibycus,Bacchylides, and Sappho[1]starry-eyed,And that delicious lute the Teian playedWithin the halls of King Polycrates,While round him, bound with leafed and roseal wreaths,Mid fountain spray and snowy columns, dancedIonia’s raven-tressed voluptuous girls.Minstrel of beauty, love, and vinous joy,Thy festal spirit yet survives on earth,Clad in a garment of enduring verse,The asbestine robe of all-immortal song!
Ye lands and immemorial isles, that bearThe name of Ion, who with besom madeOf laurel-boughs the Sun-god’s temple swept—Ye golden climes, to poesy and loveMost dear, oases mid the wastes of Eld,Where, in her lonely retrospective flight,Bright-haired Mnemosyne delights to pause,By matchless shapes of loveliness beguiled!Within your bounds the plastic hand of artFirst made the mountain’s marble entrails teemWith images of beauty, lining allYour sea-washed strand with fair columnar cities,Built high of glossiest sun-enamelled stone.Forever o’er your myrtle-shaded vales,Reclined on summer clouds, did AphroditeAnd golden Eros lean, kindling the airWith passion’s rosy glow. In all the earthBeside, did visible nature never wearRobes so resplendent. Through the luminous foldsOf your transparent atmosphere appearedUnequalled prospects to enchant the eye;Marmorean cities rising o’er the vergeOf halcyon seas, and promontories crownedWith tombs heroical, or glistening shrines;And breezy mountains swathed with silver clouds,The watchtowers blue of broad-eyed Jove; whence heThe limitless low-lying earth surveyed,The towns of mortal men, their fights and toils.Oft from your shore the fisherman descriedThe smoke of conflagration climbing slow,In graceful spires, far up the summer air,From some beleaguered city of the isles;And white-robed argosies from wealthy Tyre,Rising and falling on the sparkling waves,Voyaging with orient merchandise to towns,Whose turrets glittered in the western beam.Within your cities, villages, and fields,Abode a graceful populace, with ritesAnd manners beautiful as e’er adornedThe imagined landscape of a poet’s dream;The captive maid, descending with her urnTo shady spring, or cistern scooped from stone,And flowing with cool water to the brim;The royal virgin, seated far withinSome gorgeous recess of the kingly dome,Plying with busy hand her dædal loom;The wandering minstrel, slumbering fast at noonBy fountain-side or stream, or harping loudIn palace hall, and crowded market-place;The frequent song of Hymen, saffron-robed,Resounding through the torchlit street, what timeThe star of love, thrice welcome Hesper, roseAbove some immemorial mountain’s brow;The youthful vintagers, by moonlight paleBearing the grapes in osier talarisks,While on his lute some beardless minstrel playedThe Lay of Linus, regal boy, of allThe sons of men most musical, whose bloomWas scorched and withered by the solar beam;The rustic temple, hidden deep in grovesAnd pleasant solitudes, beneath whose domeThe village youth their glowing pæans sang;And over all the dark blue heavens sublime,Where from their sky-pavilions brightest shoneThe ancient stars and constellations, hymnedBy eldest bards—the sworded Titan namedOrion, with the starry sisterhoods,Hyads and Pleïades in clusters bright.Cradled amid your kindly influences,The soft Ionian fancy wantoned wildIn warm voluptuous dreams of loveliness,Pouring its inspirations in a tongueInimitable—a honeyed dialect—Protean, flexible, all various,Whose vowelled cadences could flow as smoothAs amber streams, or raise and modulateTheir intonations to the ocean’s deepSonorous surges chafing with the strand.Indelible and burning Rune, its wordsUpon the scroll of blind MeonidesSurvive, and with their fluent numbers shameThe harsher languages of later days.Nor in the Carian’s golden chronicle,Though not arranged in metrical array,Sound they less sweet. Alas! the glorious tribes,Over whose chiselled lips they wont to rollIn honeyed song and fiery eloquence,Have vanished. Hushed the lyres of Ibycus,Bacchylides, and Sappho[1]starry-eyed,And that delicious lute the Teian playedWithin the halls of King Polycrates,While round him, bound with leafed and roseal wreaths,Mid fountain spray and snowy columns, dancedIonia’s raven-tressed voluptuous girls.Minstrel of beauty, love, and vinous joy,Thy festal spirit yet survives on earth,Clad in a garment of enduring verse,The asbestine robe of all-immortal song!
Ye lands and immemorial isles, that bear
The name of Ion, who with besom made
Of laurel-boughs the Sun-god’s temple swept—
Ye golden climes, to poesy and love
Most dear, oases mid the wastes of Eld,
Where, in her lonely retrospective flight,
Bright-haired Mnemosyne delights to pause,
By matchless shapes of loveliness beguiled!
Within your bounds the plastic hand of art
First made the mountain’s marble entrails teem
With images of beauty, lining all
Your sea-washed strand with fair columnar cities,
Built high of glossiest sun-enamelled stone.
Forever o’er your myrtle-shaded vales,
Reclined on summer clouds, did Aphrodite
And golden Eros lean, kindling the air
With passion’s rosy glow. In all the earth
Beside, did visible nature never wear
Robes so resplendent. Through the luminous folds
Of your transparent atmosphere appeared
Unequalled prospects to enchant the eye;
Marmorean cities rising o’er the verge
Of halcyon seas, and promontories crowned
With tombs heroical, or glistening shrines;
And breezy mountains swathed with silver clouds,
The watchtowers blue of broad-eyed Jove; whence he
The limitless low-lying earth surveyed,
The towns of mortal men, their fights and toils.
Oft from your shore the fisherman descried
The smoke of conflagration climbing slow,
In graceful spires, far up the summer air,
From some beleaguered city of the isles;
And white-robed argosies from wealthy Tyre,
Rising and falling on the sparkling waves,
Voyaging with orient merchandise to towns,
Whose turrets glittered in the western beam.
Within your cities, villages, and fields,
Abode a graceful populace, with rites
And manners beautiful as e’er adorned
The imagined landscape of a poet’s dream;
The captive maid, descending with her urn
To shady spring, or cistern scooped from stone,
And flowing with cool water to the brim;
The royal virgin, seated far within
Some gorgeous recess of the kingly dome,
Plying with busy hand her dædal loom;
The wandering minstrel, slumbering fast at noon
By fountain-side or stream, or harping loud
In palace hall, and crowded market-place;
The frequent song of Hymen, saffron-robed,
Resounding through the torchlit street, what time
The star of love, thrice welcome Hesper, rose
Above some immemorial mountain’s brow;
The youthful vintagers, by moonlight pale
Bearing the grapes in osier talarisks,
While on his lute some beardless minstrel played
The Lay of Linus, regal boy, of all
The sons of men most musical, whose bloom
Was scorched and withered by the solar beam;
The rustic temple, hidden deep in groves
And pleasant solitudes, beneath whose dome
The village youth their glowing pæans sang;
And over all the dark blue heavens sublime,
Where from their sky-pavilions brightest shone
The ancient stars and constellations, hymned
By eldest bards—the sworded Titan named
Orion, with the starry sisterhoods,
Hyads and Pleïades in clusters bright.
Cradled amid your kindly influences,
The soft Ionian fancy wantoned wild
In warm voluptuous dreams of loveliness,
Pouring its inspirations in a tongue
Inimitable—a honeyed dialect—
Protean, flexible, all various,
Whose vowelled cadences could flow as smooth
As amber streams, or raise and modulate
Their intonations to the ocean’s deep
Sonorous surges chafing with the strand.
Indelible and burning Rune, its words
Upon the scroll of blind Meonides
Survive, and with their fluent numbers shame
The harsher languages of later days.
Nor in the Carian’s golden chronicle,
Though not arranged in metrical array,
Sound they less sweet. Alas! the glorious tribes,
Over whose chiselled lips they wont to roll
In honeyed song and fiery eloquence,
Have vanished. Hushed the lyres of Ibycus,
Bacchylides, and Sappho[1]starry-eyed,
And that delicious lute the Teian played
Within the halls of King Polycrates,
While round him, bound with leafed and roseal wreaths,
Mid fountain spray and snowy columns, danced
Ionia’s raven-tressed voluptuous girls.
Minstrel of beauty, love, and vinous joy,
Thy festal spirit yet survives on earth,
Clad in a garment of enduring verse,
The asbestine robe of all-immortal song!
[1]Sappho was an Æolian, but she is commonly included in this cluster of poets.
[1]Sappho was an Æolian, but she is commonly included in this cluster of poets.
[1]Sappho was an Æolian, but she is commonly included in this cluster of poets.