These sources then of pain, this double lot 570Of evil in the inheritance of man,Required for his protection no slight force,No careless watch; and therefore was his breastFenced round with passions quick to be alarm'd,Or stubborn to oppose; with Fear, more swiftThan beacons catching flame from hill to hill,Where armies land: with Anger, uncontroll'dAs the young lion bounding on his prey;With Sorrow, that locks up the struggling heart;And Shame, that overcasts the drooping eye 580As with a cloud of lightning. These the partPerform of eager monitors, and goadThe soul more sharply than with points of steel,Her enemies to shun or to resist.And as those passions, that converse with good,Are good themselves; as Hope and Love and Joy,Among the fairest and the sweetest boonsOf life, we rightly count: so these, which guardAgainst invading evil, still exciteSome pain, some tumult; these, within the mind 590Too oft admitted or too long retain'd,Shock their frail seat, and by their uncurb'd rageTo savages more fell than Libya breedsTransform themselves, till human thought becomesA gloomy ruin, haunt of shapes unbless'd,Of self-tormenting fiends; Horror, Despair,Hatred, and wicked Envy: foes to allThe works of Nature and the gifts of Heaven.
But when through blameless paths to righteous endsThose keener passions urge the awaken'd soul, 600I would not, as ungracious violence,Their sway describe, nor from their free careerThe fellowship of Pleasure quite exclude.For what can render, to the self-approved,Their temper void of comfort, though in pain?Who knows not with what majesty divineThe forms of Truth and Justice to the mindAppear, ennobling oft the sharpest woeWith triumph and rejoicing? Who, that bearsA human bosom, hath not often felt 610How dear are all those ties which bind our raceIn gentleness together, and how sweetTheir force, let Fortune's wayward hand the whileBe kind or cruel? Ask the faithful youth,Why the cold urn of her whom long he lovedSo often fills his arms; so often drawsHis lonely footsteps, silent and unseen,To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?Oh! he will tell thee that the wealth of worldsShould ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 620Those sacred hours when, stealing from the noiseOf care and envy, sweet remembrance soothesWith Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd,Which flies impatient from the village walkTo climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far belowThe savage winds have hurl'd upon the coastSome helpless bark; while holy Pity meltsThe general eye, or Terror's icy handSmites their distorted limbs and horrent hair; 630While every mother closer to her breastCatcheth her child, and, pointing where the wavesFoam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloudAs one poor wretch, who spreads his piteous armsFor succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,As now another, dash'd against the rock,Drops lifeless down. Oh! deemest thou indeedNo pleasing influence here by Nature givenTo mutual terror and compassion's tears?No tender charm mysterious, which attracts 640O'er all that edge of pain the social powersTo this their proper action and their end?Ask thy own heart; when at the midnight hour,Slow through that pensive gloom thy pausing eye,Led by the glimmering taper, moves aroundThe reverend volumes of the dead, the songsOf Grecian bards, and records writ by fameFor Grecian heroes, where the sovereign PowerOf heaven and earth surveys the immortal page,Even as a father meditating all 650The praises of his son, and bids the restOf mankind there the fairest model learnOf their own nature, and the noblest deedsWhich yet the world hath seen. If then thy soulJoin in the lot of those diviner men;Say, when the prospect darkens on thy view;When, sunk by many a wound, heroic statesMourn in the dust and tremble at the frownOf hard Ambition; when the generous bandOf youths who fought for freedom and their sires 660Lie side by side in death; when brutal ForceUsurps the throne of Justice, turns the pompOf guardian power, the majesty of rule,The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,To poor dishonest pageants, to adornA robber's walk, and glitter in the eyesOf such as bow the knee; when beauteous works,Rewards of virtue, sculptured forms which deck'dWith more than human grace the warrior's arch,Or patriot's tomb, now victims to appease 670Tyrannic envy, strew the common pathWith awful ruins; when the Muse's haunt,The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talkWith Socrates or Tully, hears no moreSave the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,Or female Superstition's midnight prayer;When ruthless Havoc from the hand of TimeTears the destroying scythe, with surer strokeTo mow the monuments of Glory down;Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street 680Expands her raven wings, and, from the gateWhere senates once the weal of nations plann'd,Hisseth the gliding snake through hoary weedsThat clasp the mouldering column: thus when allThe widely-mournful scene is fix'd withinThy throbbing bosom; when the patriot's tearStarts from thine eye, and thy extended armIn fancy hurls the thunderbolt of JoveTo fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,Or dash Octavius from the trophied car; 690Say, doth thy secret soul repine to tasteThe big distress? Or wouldst thou then exchangeThose heart-ennobling sorrows for the lotOf him who sits amid the gaudy herdOf silent flatterers bending to his nod;And o'er them, like a giant, casts his eye,And says within himself, 'I am a King,And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woeIntrude upon mine ear?' The dregs corruptOf barbarous ages, that Circaean draught 700Of servitude and folly, have not yet,Bless'd be the Eternal Ruler of the world!Yet have not so dishonour'd, so deform'dThe native judgment of the human soul,Nor so effaced the image of her Sire.
What tongue then may explain the various fateWhich reigns o'er earth? or who to mortal eyesIllustrate this perplexing labyrinthOf joy and woe, through which the feet of manAre doom'd to wander? That Eternal MindFrom passions, wants, and envy far estranged,Who built the spacious universe, and deck'dEach part so richly with whate'er pertainsTo life, to health, to pleasure, why bade heThe viper Evil, creeping in, pollute 10The goodly scene, and with insidious rage,While the poor inmate looks around and smilesDart her fell sting with poison to his soul?Hard is the question, and from ancient daysHath still oppress'd with care the sage's thought;Hath drawn forth accents from the poet's lyreToo sad, too deeply plaintive; nor did e'erThose chiefs of human kind, from whom the lightOf heavenly truth first gleam'd on barbarous lands,Forget this dreadful secret when they told 20What wondrous things had to their favour'd eyesAnd ears on cloudy mountain been reveal'd,Or in deep cave by nymph or power divine,Portentous oft, and wild. Yet one I know.Could I the speech of lawgivers assume,One old and splendid tale I would record,With which the Muse of Solon in sweet strainsAdorn'd this theme profound, and render'd allIts darkness, all its terrors, bright as noon,Or gentle as the golden star of eve. 30Who knows not Solon,—last, and wisest far,Of those whom Greece, triumphant in the heightOf glory, styled her fathers,—him whose voiceThrough Athens hush'd the storm of civil wrath;Taught envious Want and cruel Wealth to joinIn friendship; and, with sweet compulsion, tamedMinerva's eager people to his laws,Which their own goddess in his breast inspired?
'Twas now the time when his heroic taskSeem'd but perform'd in vain; when, soothed by years 40Of flattering service, the fond multitudeHung with their sudden counsels on the breathOf great Pisistratus, that chief renown'd,Whom Hermes and the Idalian queen had train'd,Even from his birth, to every powerful artOf pleasing and persuading; from whose lipsFlow'd eloquence which, like the vows of love,Could steal away suspicion from the heartsOf all who listen'd. Thus from day to dayHe won the general suffrage, and beheld 50Each rival overshadow'd and depress'dBeneath his ampler state; yet oft complain'd,As one less kindly treated, who had hopedTo merit favour, but submits perforceTo find another's services preferr'd,Nor yet relaxeth aught of faith or zeal.Then tales were scatter'd of his envious foes,Of snares that watch'd his fame, of daggers aim'dAgainst his life. At last, with trembling limbs,His hair diffused and wild, his garments loose, 60And stain'd with blood from self-inflicted wounds,He burst into the public place, as there,There only, were his refuge; and declaredIn broken words, with sighs of deep regret,The mortal danger he had scarce repell'd.Fired with his tragic tale, the indignant crowd,To guard his steps, forthwith a menial band,Array'd beneath his eye for deeds of war,Decree. Oh! still too liberal of their trust,And oft betray'd by over-grateful love, 70The generous people! Now behold him fencedBy mercenary weapons, like a king,Forth issuing from the city-gate at eveTo seek his rural mansion, and with pompCrowding the public road. The swain stops short,And sighs; the officious townsmen stand at gaze,And shrinking give the sullen pageant room.Yet not the less obsequious was his brow;Nor less profuse of courteous words his tongue,Of gracious gifts his hand; the while by stealth, 80Like a small torrent fed with evening showers,His train increased; till, at that fatal timeJust as the public eye, with doubt and shameStartled, began to question what it saw,Swift as the sound of earthquakes rush'd a voiceThrough Athens, that Pisistratus had fill'dThe rocky citadel with hostile arms,Had barr'd the steep ascent, and sate withinAmid his hirelings, meditating deathTo all whose stubborn necks his yoke refused. 90Where then was Solon? After ten long yearsOf absence, full of haste from foreign shores,The sage, the lawgiver had now arrived:Arrived, alas! to see that Athens, thatFair temple raised by him and sacred call'dTo Liberty and Concord, now profanedBy savage hate, or sunk into a denOf slaves who crouch beneath the master's scourge,And deprecate his wrath, and court his chains.Yet did not the wise patriot's grief impede 100His virtuous will, nor was his heart inclinedOne moment with such woman-like distressTo view the transient storms of civil war,As thence to yield his country and her hopesTo all-devouring bondage. His bright helm,Even while the traitor's impious act is told,He buckles on his hoary head; he girdsWith mail his stooping breast; the shield, the spearHe snatcheth; and with swift indignant stridesThe assembled people seeks; proclaims aloud 110It was no time for counsel; in their spearsLay all their prudence now; the tyrant yetWas not so firmly seated on his throne,But that one shock of their united forceWould dash him from the summit of his pride,Headlong and grovelling in the dust. 'What elseCan reassert the lost Athenian name,So cheaply to the laughter of the worldBetray'd; by guile beneath an infant's faithSo mock'd and scorn'd? Away, then: Freedom now 120And Safety dwell not but with Fame in arms;Myself will shew you where their mansion lies,And through the walks of Danger or of DeathConduct you to them.'—While he spake, through allTheir crowded ranks his quick sagacious eyeHe darted; where no cheerful voice was heardOf social daring; no stretch'd arm was seenHastening their common task: but pale mistrustWrinkled each brow; they shook their head, and downTheir slack hands hung; cold sighs and whisper'd doubts 130From breath to breath stole round. The sage meantimeLook'd speechless on, while his big bosom heaved,Struggling with shame and sorrow, till at lastA tear broke forth; and, 'O immortal shades,O Theseus,' he exclaim'd, 'O Codrus, where,Where are ye now behold for what ye toil'dThrough life! behold for whom ye chose to die!'No more he added; but with lonely stepsWeary and slow, his silver beard depress'd,And his stern eyes bent heedless on the ground, 140Back to his silent dwelling he repair'd.There o'er the gate, his armour, as a manWhom from the service of the war his chiefDismisseth after no inglorious toil,He fix'd in general view. One wishful lookHe sent, unconscious, toward the public placeAt parting; then beneath his quiet roofWithout a word, without a sigh, retired.Scarce had the morrow's sun his golden raysFrom sweet Hymettus darted o'er the fanes 150Of Cecrops to the Salaminian shores,When, lo, on Solon's threshold met the feetOf four Athenians, by the same sad careConducted all, than whom the state beheldNone nobler. First came Megacles, the sonOf great Alcmaeon, whom the Lydian king,The mild, unhappy Croesus, in his daysOf glory had with costly gifts adorn'd,Fair vessels, splendid garments, tinctured websAnd heaps of treasured gold, beyond the lot 160Of many sovereigns; thus requiting wellThat hospitable favour which erewhileAlcmaeon to his messengers had shown,Whom he, with offerings worthy of the god,Sent from his throne in Sardis, to revereApollo's Delphic shrine. With MegaclesApproach'd his son, whom Agarista bore,The virtuous child of Clistheues, whose handOf Grecian sceptres the most ancient farIn Sicyon sway'd: but greater fame he drew 170From arms controll'd by justice, from the loveOf the wise Muses, and the unenvied wreathWhich glad Olympia gave. For thither onceHis warlike steeds the hero led, and thereContended through the tumult of the courseWith skilful wheels. Then victor at the goal,Amid the applauses of assembled Greece,High on his car he stood and waved his arm.Silence ensued: when straight the herald's voiceWas heard, inviting every Grecian youth, 180Whom Clisthenes content might call his son,To visit, ere twice thirty days were pass'd,The towers of Sicyon. There the chief decreed,Within the circuit of the following year,To join at Hymen's altar, hand in handWith his fair daughter, him among the guestsWhom worthiest he should deem. Forthwith from allThe bounds of Greece the ambitious wooers came:From rich Hesperia; from the Illyrian shore,Where Epidamnus over Adria's surge 190Looks on the setting sun; from those brave tribesChaonian or Molossian, whom the raceOf great Achilles governs, glorying stillIn Troy o'erthrown; from rough Aetolia, nurseOf men who first among the Greeks threw offThe yoke of kings, to commerce and to armsDevoted; from Thessalia's fertile meads,Where flows Penéus near the lofty wallsOf Cranon old; from strong Eretria, queenOf all Euboean cities, who, sublime 200On the steep margin of Euripus, viewsAcross the tide the Marathonian plain,Not yet the haunt of glory. Athens too,Minerva's care, among her graceful sonsFound equal lovers for the princely maid:Nor was proud Argos wanting; nor the domesOf sacred Elis; nor the Arcadian grovesThat overshade Alpheus, echoing oftSome shepherd's song. But through the illustrious bandWas none who might with Megacles compare 210In all the honours of unblemish'd youth.His was the beauteous bride; and now their son,Young Clisthenes, betimes, at Solon's gateStood anxious; leaning forward on the armOf his great sire, with earnest eyes that ask'dWhen the slow hinge would turn, with restless feet,And cheeks now pale, now glowing; for his heartThrobb'd full of bursting passions, anger, griefWith scorn imbitter'd, by the generous boyScarce understood, but which, like noble seeds, 220Are destined for his country and himselfIn riper years to bring forth fruits divineOf liberty and glory. Next appear'dTwo brave companions, whom one mother boreTo different lords; but whom the better tiesOf firm esteem and friendship render'd moreThan brothers: first Miltiades, who drewFrom godlike Æacus his ancient line;That Æacus whose unimpeach'd renownFor sanctity and justice won the lyre 230Of elder bards to celebrate him thronedIn Hades o'er the dead, where his decreesThe guilty soul within the burning gatesOf Tartarus compel, or send the goodTo inhabit with eternal health and peaceThe valleys of Elysium. From a stemSo sacred, ne'er could worthier scion springThan this Miltiades; whose aid ere longThe chiefs of Thrace, already on their ways,Sent by the inspired foreknowing maid who sits 240Upon the Delphic tripod, shall imploreTo wield their sceptre, and the rural wealthOf fruitful Chersonesus to protectWith arms and laws. But, nothing careful nowSave for his injured country, here he standsIn deep solicitude with Cimon join'd:Unconscious both what widely different lotsAwait them, taught by nature as they areTo know one common good, one common ill.For Cimon, not his valour, not his birth 250Derived from Codrus, not a thousand giftsDealt round him with a wise, benignant hand;No, not the Olympic olive, by himselfFrom his own brow transferr'd to soothe the mindOf this Pisistratus, can long preserveFrom the fell envy of the tyrant's sons,And their assassin dagger. But if deathObscure upon his gentle steps attend,Yet fate an ample recompense preparesIn his victorious son, that other great 260Miltiades, who o'er the very throneOf Glory shall with Time's assiduous handIn adamantine characters engraveThe name of Athens; and, by Freedom arm'd'Gainst the gigantic pride of Asia's king,Shall all the achievements of the heroes oldSurmount, of Hercules, of all who sail'dFrom Thessaly with Jason, all who foughtFor empire or for fame at Thebes or Troy.
Such were the patriots who within the porch 270Of Solon had assembled. But the gateNow opens, and across the ample floorStraight they proceed into an open spaceBright with the beams of morn: a verdant spot,Where stands a rural altar, piled with sodsCut from the grassy turf and girt with wreaths,Of branching palm. Here Solon's self they foundClad in a robe of purple pure, and deck'dWith leaves of olive on his reverend brow.He bow'd before the altar, and o'er cakes 280Of barley from two earthen vessels pour'dOf honey and of milk a plenteous stream;Calling meantime the Muses to acceptHis simple offering, by no victim tingedWith blood, nor sullied by destroying fire,But such as for himself Apollo claimsIn his own Delos, where his favourite hauntIs thence the Altar of the Pious named.
Unseen the guests drew near, and silent view'dThat worship; till the hero-priest his eye 290Turn'd toward a seat on which prepared there layA branch of laurel. Then his friends confess'dBefore him stood. Backward his step he drew,As loath that care or tumult should approachThose early rites divine; but soon their looks,So anxious, and their hands, held forth with suchDesponding gesture, bring him on perforceTo speak to their affliction. 'Are ye come,'He cried, 'to mourn with me this common shame?Or ask ye some new effort which may break 300Our fetters? Know then, of the public causeNot for yon traitor's cunning or his mightDo I despair; nor could I wish from JoveAught dearer, than at this late hour of life,As once by laws, so now by strenuous arms,From impious violation to assertThe rights our fathers left us. But, alas!What arms? or who shall wield them? Ye beheldThe Athenian people. Many bitter daysMust pass, and many wounds from cruel pride 310Be felt, ere yet their partial hearts find roomFor just resentment, or their hands indureTo smite this tyrant brood, so near to allTheir hopes, so oft admired, so long beloved.That time will come, however. Be it yoursTo watch its fair approach, and urge it onWith honest prudence; me it ill beseemsAgain to supplicate the unwilling crowdTo rescue from a vile deceiver's holdThat envied power, which once with eager zeal 320They offer'd to myself; nor can I plungeIn counsels deep and various, nor prepareFor distant wars, thus faltering as I treadOn life's last verge, ere long to join the shadesOf Minos and Lycurgus. But beholdWhat care employs me now. My vows I payTo the sweet Muses, teachers of my youthAnd solace of my age. If right I deemOf the still voice that whispers at my heart,The immortal sisters have not quite withdrawn 330Their old harmonious influence. Let your tonguesWith sacred silence favour what I speak,And haply shall my faithful lips be taughtTo unfold celestial counsels, which may arm,As with impenetrable steel your breasts,For the long strife before you, and repelThe darts of adverse fate.'—He said, and snatch'dThe laurel bough, and sate in silence down,Fix'd, wrapp'd in solemn musing, full beforeThe sun, who now from all his radiant orb 340Drove the gray clouds, and pour'd his genial lightUpon the breast of Solon. Solon raisedAloft the leafy rod, and thus began:—
'Ye beauteous offspring of Olympian JoveAnd Memory divine, Pierian maids,Hear me, propitious. In the morn of life,When hope shone bright and all the prospect smiled,To your sequester'd mansion oft my stepsWere turn'd, O Muses, and within your gateMy offerings paid. Ye taught me then with strains 350Of flowing harmony to soften war'sDire voice, or in fair colours, that might charmThe public eye, to clothe the form austereOf civil counsel. Now my feeble age,Neglected, and supplanted of the hopeOn which it lean'd, yet sinks not, but to you,To your mild wisdom flies, refuge belovedOf solitude and silence. Ye can teachThe visions of my bed whate'er the godsIn the rude ages of the world inspired, 360Or the first heroes acted; ye can makeThe morning light more gladsome to my senseThan ever it appear'd to active youthPursuing careless pleasure; ye can giveTo this long leisure, these unheeded hours,A labour as sublime, as when the sonsOf Athens throng'd and speechless round me stood,To hear pronounced for all their future deedsThe bounds of right and wrong. Celestial powers!I feel that ye are near me: and behold, 370To meet your energy divine, I bringA high and sacred theme; not less than thoseWhich to the eternal custody of FameYour lips intrusted, when of old ye deign'dWith Orpheus or with Homer to frequentThe groves of Hæmus or the Chian shore.
'Ye know, harmonious maids, (for what of allMy various life was e'er from you estranged?)Oft hath my solitary song to youReveal'd that duteous pride which turn'd my steps 380To willing exile; earnest to withdrawFrom envy and the disappointed thirstOf lucre, lest the bold familiar strife,Which in the eye of Athens they upheldAgainst her legislator, should impairWith trivial doubt the reverence of his laws.To Egypt therefore through the Ægean islesMy course I steer'd, and by the banks of NileDwelt in Canopus. Thence the hallow'd domesOf Sals, and the rites to Isis paid, 390I sought, and in her temple's silent courts,Through many changing moons, attentive heardThe venerable Sonchis, while his tongueAt morn or midnight the deep story toldOf her who represents whate'er has been,Or is, or shall be; whose mysterious veilNo mortal hand hath ever yet removed.By him exhorted, southward to the wallsOf On I pass'd, the city of the sun,The ever-youthful god. Twas there, amid 400His priests and sages, who the livelong nightWatch the dread movements of the starry sphere,Or who in wondrous fables half discloseThe secrets of the elements, 'twas thereThat great Paenophis taught my raptured earsThe fame of old Atlantis, of her chiefs,And her pure laws, the first which earth obey'd.Deep in my bosom sunk the noble tale;And often, while I listen'd, did my mindForetell with what delight her own free lyre 410Should sometime for an Attic audience raiseAnew that lofty scene, and from their tombsCall forth those ancient demigods, to speakOf Justice and the hidden ProvidenceThat walks among mankind. But yet meantimeThe mystic pomp of Ammon's gloomy sonsBecame less pleasing. With contempt I gazedOn that tame garb and those unvarying paths,To which the double yoke of king and priestHad cramp'd the sullen race. At last, with hymns 420Invoking our own Pallas and the godsOf cheerful Greece, a glad farewell I gaveTo Egypt, and before the southern windSpread my full sails. What climes I then survey'd,What fortunes I encounter'd in the realmOf Croesus or upon the Cyprian shore,The Muse, who prompts my bosom, doth not nowConsent that I reveal. But when at lengthTen times the sun returning from the southHad strow'd with flowers the verdant earth, and fill'd 430The groves with music, pleased I then beheldThe term of those long errors drawing nigh.Nor yet, I said, will I sit down withinThe walls of Athens, till my feet have trodThe Cretan soil, have pierced those reverend hauntsWhence Law and Civil Concord issued forthAs from their ancient home, and still to GreeceTheir wisest, loftiest discipline proclaim.Straight where Amnisus, mart of wealthy ships,Appears beneath famed Cnossus and her towers, 440Like the fair handmaid of a stately queen,I check'd my prow, and thence with eager stepsThe city of Minos enter'd. O ye gods,Who taught the leaders of the simpler timeBy written words to curb the untoward willOf mortals, how within that generous isleHave ye the triumphs of your power display'dMunificent! Those splendid merchants, lordsOf traffic and the sea, with what delightI saw them, at their public meal, like sons 450Of the same household, join the plainer sortWhose wealth was only freedom! whence to theseVile envy, and to those fantastic pride,Alike was strange; but noble concord stillCherish'd the strength untamed, the rustic faith,Of their first fathers. Then the growing race,How pleasing to behold them in their schools,Their sports, their labours, ever placed within,O shade of Minos! thy controlling eye.Here was a docile band in tuneful tones 460Thy laws pronouncing, or with lofty hymnsPraising the bounteous gods, or, to preserveTheir country's heroes from oblivious night,Resounding what the Muse inspired of old;There, on the verge of manhood, others met,In heavy armour through the heats of noonTo march, the rugged mountain's height to climbWith measured swiftness, from the hard-bent bowTo send resistless arrows to their mark,Or for the fame of prowess to contend, 470Now wrestling, now with fists and staves opposed,Now with the biting falchion, and the fenceOf brazen shields; while still the warbling flutePresided o'er the combat, breathing strainsGrave, solemn, soft; and changing headlong spiteTo thoughtful resolution cool and clear.Such I beheld those islanders renown'd,So tutor'd from their birth to meet in warEach bold invader, and in peace to guardThat living flame of reverence for their laws, 480Which nor the storms of fortune, nor the floodOf foreign wealth diffused o'er all the land,Could quench or slacken. First of human namesIn every Cretan's heart was Minos still;And holiest far, of what the sun surveysThrough his whole course, were those primeval seatsWhich with religious footsteps he had taughtTheir sires to approach; the wild Dictaean caveWhere Jove was born: the ever verdant meadsOf Ida, and the spacious grotto, where 490His active youth he pass'd, and where his throneYet stands mysterious; whither Minos cameEach ninth returning year, the king of godsAnd mortals there in secret to consultOn justice, and the tables of his lawTo inscribe anew. Oft also with like zealGreat Rhea's mansion from the Cnossian gatesMen visit; nor less oft the antique faneBuilt on that sacred spot, along the banksOf shady Theron, where benignant Jove 500And his majestic consort join'd their handsAnd spoke their nuptial vows. Alas, 'twas thereThat the dire fame of Athens sunk in bondsI first received; what time an annual feastHad summon'd all the genial country round,By sacrifice and pomp to bring to mindThat first great spousal; while the enamour'd youthsAnd virgins, with the priest before the shrine,Observe the same pure ritual, and invokeThe same glad omens. There, among the crowd 510Of strangers from those naval cities drawnWhich deck, like gems, the island's northern shore,A merchant of Ægina I descried,My ancient host; but, forward as I sprungTo meet him, he, with dark dejected brow,Stopp'd half averse; and, "O Athenian guest,"He said, "art thou in Crete, these joyful ritesPartaking? Know thy laws are blotted out:Thy country kneels before a tyrant's throne."He added names of men, with hostile deeds 520Disastrous; which obscure and indistinctI heard: for, while he spake, my heart grew coldAnd my eyes dim; the altars and their trainNo more were present to me; how I fared,Or whither turn'd, I know not; nor recallAught of those moments, other than the senseOf one who struggles in oppressive sleep,And, from the toils of some distressful dreamTo break away, with palpitating heart,Weak limbs, and temples bathed in death-like dew, 530Makes many a painful effort. When at lastThe sun and nature's face again appear'd,Not far I found me, where the public path,Winding through cypress groves and swelling meads,From Cnossus to the cave of Jove ascends.Heedless I follow'd on; till soon the skirtsOf Ida rose before me, and the vaultWide opening pierced the mountain's rocky side.Entering within the threshold, on the groundI flung me, sad, faint, overworn with toil.' 540
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One effort more, one cheerful sally more,Our destined course will finish; and in peaceThen, for an offering sacred to the powersWho lent us gracious guidance, we will thenInscribe a monument of deathless praise,O my adventurous song! With steady speedLong hast thou, on an untried voyage bound,Sail'd between earth and heaven: hast now survey'd,Stretch'd out beneath thee, all the mazy tractsOf Passion and Opinion; like a waste 10Of sands and flowery lawns and tangling woods,Where mortals roam bewilder'd: and hast nowExulting soar'd among the worlds above,Or hover'd near the eternal gates of heaven,If haply the discourses of the gods,A curious, but an unpresuming guest,Thou mightst partake, and carry back some strainOf divine wisdom, lawful to repeat,And apt to be conceived of man below.A different task remains; the secret paths 20Of early genius to explore: to traceThose haunts where Fancy her predestined sons,Like to the demigods of old, doth nurseRemote from eyes profane. Ye happy soulsWho now her tender discipline obey,Where dwell ye? What wild river's brink at eveImprint your steps? What solemn groves at noonUse ye to visit, often breaking forthIn rapture 'mid your dilatory walk,Or musing, as in slumber, on the green?— 30Would I again were with you!-O ye dalesOf Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where,Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides,And his banks open, and his lawns extend,Stops short the pleased traveller to viewPresiding o'er the scene some rustic towerFounded by Norman or by Saxon hands:O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlookThe rocky pavement and the mossy fallsOf solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream; 40How gladly I recall your well-known seatsBeloved of old, and that delightful timeWhen all alone, for many a summer's day,I wander'd through your calm recesses, ledIn silence by some powerful hand unseen.
Nor will I e'er forget you; nor shall e'erThe graver tasks of manhood, or the adviceOf vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaimThose studies which possess'd me in the dawnOf life, and fix'd the colour of my mind 50For every future year: whence even nowFrom sleep I rescue the clear hours of morn,And, while the world around lies overwhelm'dIn idle darkness, am alive to thoughtsOf honourable fame, of truth divineOr moral, and of minds to virtue wonBy the sweet magic of harmonious verse;The themes which now expect us. For thus farOn general habits, and on arts which growSpontaneous in the minds of all mankind, 60Hath dwelt our argument; and how, self-taught,Though seldom conscious of their own employ,In Nature's or in Fortune's changeful sceneMen learn to judge of Beauty, and acquireThose forms set up, as idols in the soulFor love and zealous praise. Yet indistinct,In vulgar bosoms, and unnoticed lieThese pleasing stores, unless the casual forceOf things external prompt the heedless mindTo recognise her wealth. But some there are 70Conscious of Nature, and the rule which manO'er Nature holds; some who, within themselvesRetiring from the trivial scenes of chanceAnd momentary passion, can at willCall up these fair exemplars of the mind;Review their features; scan the secret lawsWhich bind them to each other: and displayBy forms, or sounds, or colours, to the senseOf all the world their latent charms display;Even as in Nature's frame (if such a word, 80If such a word, so bold, may from the lipsOf man proceed) as in this outward frameOf things, the great Artificer portraysHis own immense idea. Various namesThese among mortals bear, as various signsThey use, and by peculiar organs speakTo human sense. There are who, by the flightOf air through tubes with moving stops distinct,Or by extended chords in measure taughtTo vibrate, can assemble powerful sounds 90Expressing every temper of the mindFrom every cause, and charming all the soulWith passion void of care. Others mean timeThe rugged mass of metal, wood, or stone,Patiently taming; or with easier handDescribing lines, and with more ample scopeUniting colours; can to general sightProduce those permanent and perfect forms,Those characters of heroes and of gods,Which from the crude materials of the world, 100Their own high minds created. But the chiefAre poets; eloquent men, who dwell on earthTo clothe whate'er the soul admires or lovesWith language and with numbers. Hence to theseA field is open'd wide as Nature's sphere;Nay, wider: various as the sudden actsOf human wit, and vast as the demandsOf human will. The bard nor length, nor depth,Nor place, nor form controls. To eyes, to ears,To every organ of the copious mind, 110He offereth all its treasures. Him the hours,The seasons him obey, and changeful TimeSees him at will keep measure with his flight,At will outstrip it. To enhance his toil,He summoneth, from the uttermost extentOf things which God hath taught him, every formAuxiliar, every power; and all besideExcludes imperious. His prevailing handGives, to corporeal essence, life and senseAnd every stately function of the soul. 120The soul itself to him obsequious lies,Like matter's passive heap; and as he wills,To reason and affection he assignsTheir just alliances, their just degrees:Whence his peculiar honours; whence the raceOf men who people his delightful world,Men genuine and according to themselves,Transcend as far the uncertain sons of earth,As earth itself to his delightful world,The palm of spotless Beauty doth resign. 130
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1 Off yonder verdant hillock laid,Where oaks and elms, a friendly shade,O'erlook the falling stream,O master of the Latin lyre,A while with thee will I retireFrom summer's noontide beam.
2 And, lo, within my lonely bower,The industrious bee from many a flowerCollects her balmy dews:'For me,' she sings, 'the gems are born,For me their silken robe adorn,Their fragrant breath diffuse.'
3 Sweet murmurer! may no rude stormThis hospitable scene deform,Nor check thy gladsome toils;Still may the buds unsullied spring,Still showers and sunshine court thy wingTo these ambrosial spoils.
4 Nor shall my Muse hereafter failHer fellow labourer thee to hail;And lucky be the strains!For long ago did Nature frameYour seasons and your arts the same,Your pleasures and your pains.
5 Like thee, in lowly, sylvan scenes,On river banks and flowery greens,My Muse delighted plays;Nor through the desert of the air,Though swans or eagles triumph there,With fond ambition strays.
6 Nor where the boding raven chaunts,Nor near the owl's unhallow'd hauntsWill she her cares employ;But flies from ruins and from tombs,From Superstition's horrid glooms,To day-light and to joy.
7 Nor will she tempt the barren waste;Nor deigns the lurking strength to tasteOf any noxious thing;But leaves with scorn to Envy's useThe insipid nightshade's baneful juice,The nettle's sordid sting.
8 From all which Nature fairest knows,The vernal blooms, the summer rose,She draws her blameless wealth;And, when the generous task is done,She consecrates a double boon,To Pleasure and to Health.
1 The radiant ruler of the yearAt length his wintry goal attains;Soon to reverse the long career,And northward bend his steady reins.Now, piercing half Potosi's height,Prone rush the fiery floods of lightRipening the mountain's silver stores:While, in some cavern's horrid shade,The panting Indian hides his head,And oft the approach of eve implores.
2 But lo, on this deserted coast,How pale the sun! how thick the air!Mustering his storms, a sordid host,Lo, Winter desolates the year.The fields resign their latest bloom;No more the breezes waft perfume,No more the streams in music roll:But snows fall dark, or rains resound;And, while great Nature mourns around,Her griefs infect the human soul.
3 Hence the loud city's busy throngsUrge the warm bowl and splendid fire:Harmonious dances, festive songs,Against the spiteful heaven conspire.Meantime, perhaps, with tender fearsSome village dame the curfew hears,While round the hearth her children play:At morn their father went abroad;The moon is sunk, and deep the road;She sighs, and vonders at his stay.
4 But thou, my lyre, awake, arise,And hail the sun's returning force:Even now he climbs the northern skies,And health and hope attend his course.Then louder howl the aerial waste,Be earth with keener cold embraced,Yet gentle hours advance their wing;And Fancy, mocking Winter's might,With flowers and dews and streaming lightAlready decks the new-born Spring.
5 O fountain of the golden day,Could mortal vows promote thy speed,How soon before thy vernal rayShould each unkindly damp recede!How soon each hovering tempest fly,Whose stores for mischief arm the sky,Prompt on our heads to burst amain,To rend the forest from the steep,Or, thundering o'er the Baltic deep,To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!
6 But let not man's unequal viewsPresume o'er Nature and her laws:'Tis his with grateful joy to useThe indulgence of the Sovereign Cause;Secure that health and beauty springsThrough this majestic frame of things,Beyond what he can reach to know;And that Heaven's all-subduing will,With good, the progeny of ill,Attempereth every state below.
7 How pleasing wears the wintry night,Spent with the old illustrious dead!While, by the taper's trembling light,I seem those awful scenes to treadWhere chiefs or legislators lie,Whose triumphs move before my eye,In arms and antique pomp array'd;While now I taste the Ionian song,Now bend to Plato's godlike tongueResounding through the olive shade.
8 But should some cheerful, equal friendBid leave the studious page a while.Let mirth on wisdom then attend,And social ease on learned toil.Then while, at love's uncareful shrine,Each dictates to the god of wineHer name whom all his hopes obey,What flattering dreams each bosom warm,While absence, heightening every charm,Invokes the slow-returning May!
9 May, thou delight of heaven and earth,When will thy genial star arise?The auspicious morn, which gives thee birth,Shall bring Eudora to my eyes.Within her sylvan haunt, behold,As in the happy garden old,She moves like that primeval fair:Thither, ye silver-sounding lyres,Ye tender smiles, ye chaste desires,Fond hope and mutual faith, repair.
10 And if believing love can readHis better omens in her eye,Then shall my fears, O charming maid,And every pain of absence die:Then shall my jocund harp, attunedTo thy true ear, with sweeter soundPursue the free Horatian song:Old Tyne shall listen to my tale,And Echo, down the bordering vale,The liquid melody prolong.
1 Now to the utmost southern goalThe sun has traced his annual way,And backward now prepares to roll,And bless the north with earlier day.Prone on Potosi's lofty browFloods of sublimer splendour flow,Ripening the latent seeds of gold,Whilst, panting in the lonely shade,Th' afflicted Indian hides his head,Nor dares the blaze of noon behold.
2 But lo! on this deserted coastHow faint the light, how chill the air!Lo! arm'd with whirlwind, hail, and frost,Fierce Winter desolates the year.The fields resign their cheerful bloom,No more the breezes breathe perfume,No more the warbling waters roll;Deserts of snow fatigue the eye,Successive tempests bloat the sky,And gloomy damps oppress the soul.
3 But let my drooping genius rise,And hail the sun's remotest ray:Now, now he climbs the northern skies,To-morrow nearer than to-day.Then louder howl the stormy waste,Be land and ocean worse defaced,Yet brighter hours are on the wing,And Fancy, through the wintry gloom,Radiant with dews and flowers in bloom,Already hails th' emerging spring.
4 O fountain of the golden day!Could mortal vows but urge thy speed,How soon before thy vernal rayShould each unkindly damp recede!How soon each tempest hovering fly,That now fermenting loads the sky,Prompt on our heads to burst amain,To rend the forest from the steep,And thundering o'er the Baltic deep,To whelm the merchant's hopes of gain!
5 But let not man's imperfect viewsPresume to tax wise Nature's laws;'Tis his with silent joy to useTh' indulgence of the Sovereign Cause;Secure that from the whole of thingsBeauty and good consummate springs,Beyond what he can reach to know;And that the providence of HeavenHas some peculiar blessing givenTo each allotted state below.
6 Even now how sweet the wintry nightSpent with the old illustrious dead!While, by the taper's trembling light,I seem those awful courts to tread,Where chiefs and legislators lie,Whose triumphs move before my eye,With every laurel fresh display'd;While charm'd I rove in classic song,Or bend to freedom's fearless tongue,Or walk the academic shade.
1 Indeed, my Phædria, if to findThat wealth can female wishes gain,Had e'er disturb'd your thoughtful mind,Or caused one serious moment's pain,I should have said that all the rulesYou learn'd of moralists and schoolsWere very useless, very vain.
2 Yet I perhaps mistake the case—Say, though with this heroic air,Like one that holds a nobler chase,You try the tender loss to bear,Does not your heart renounce your tongue?Seems not my censure strangely wrongTo count it such a slight affair?
3 When Hesper gilds the shaded sky,Oft as you seek the well-known grove,Methinks I see you cast your eyeBack to the morning scenes of love:Each pleasing word you heard her say,Her gentle look, her graceful way,Again your struggling fancy move.
4 Then tell me, is your soul entire?Does Wisdom calmly hold her throne?Then can you question each desire,Bid this remain, and that be gone?No tear half-starting from your eye?No kindling blush, you know not why?No stealing sigh, nor stifled groan?
5 Away with this unmanly mood!See where the hoary churl appears,Whose hand hath seized the favourite goodWhich you reserved for happier years:While, side by side, the blushing maidShrinks from his visage, half afraid,Spite of the sickly joy she wears.
6 Ye guardian powers of love and fame,This chaste, harmonious pair behold;And thus reward the generous flameOf all who barter vows for gold.O bloom of youth, O tender charmsWell-buried in a dotard's arms!O equal price of beauty sold!
7 Cease then to gaze with looks of love:Bid her adieu, the venal fair:Unworthy she your bliss to prove;Then wherefore should she prove your care?No: lay your myrtle garland down;And let a while the willow's crownWith luckier omens bind your hair.
8 O just escaped the faithless main,Though driven unwilling on the land;To guide your favour'd steps again,Behold your better Genius stand:Where Truth revolves her page divine,Where Virtue leads to Honour's shrine,Behold, he lifts his awful hand.
9 Fix but on these your ruling aim,And Time, the sire of manly care,Will fancy's dazzling colours tame;A soberer dress will beauty wear:Then shall esteem, by knowledge led,Enthrone within your heart and headSome happier love, some truer fair.
1 Yes: you contemn the perjured maidWho all your favourite hopes betray'd:Nor, though her heart should home return,Her tuneful tongue its falsehood mourn,Her winning eyes your faith implore,Would you her hand receive again,Or once dissemble your disdain,Or listen to the siren's theme,Or stoop to love: since now esteemAnd confidence, and friendship, is no more.
2 Yet tell me, Phaedria, tell me why,When, summoning your pride, you tryTo meet her looks with cool neglect,Or cross her walk with slight respect(For so is falsehood best repaid),Whence do your cheeks indignant glow?Why is your struggling tongue so slow?What means that darkness on your brow,As if with all her broken vowYou meant the fair apostate to upbraid?
1 Oh, fly! 'tis dire Suspicion's mien;And, meditating plagues unseen,The sorceress hither bends:Behold her touch in gall imbrued:Behold—her garment drops with bloodOf lovers and of friends.
2 Fly far! Already in your eyesI see a pale suffusion rise;And soon through every vein,Soon will her secret venom spread,And all your heart and all your headImbibe the potent stain.
3 Then many a demon will she raiseTo vex your sleep, to haunt your ways;While gleams of lost delightRaise the dark tempest of the brain,As lightning shines across the mainThrough whirlwinds and through night.
4 No more can faith or candour move;But each ingenuous deed of love,Which reason would applaud,Now, smiling o'er her dark distress,Fancy malignant strives to dressLike injury and fraud.
5 Farewell to virtue's peaceful times:Soon will you stoop to act the crimesWhich thus you stoop to fear:Guilt follows guilt; and where the trainBegins with wrongs of such attain,What horrors form the rear!
6 'Tis thus to work her baleful power,Suspicion waits the sullen hourOf fretfulness and strife,When care the infirmer bosom wrings,Or Eurus waves his murky wingsTo damp the seats of life.
7 But come, forsake the scene unbless'd,Which first beheld your faithful breastTo groundless fears a prey:Come where, with my prevailing lyre,The skies, the streams, the groves conspireTo charm your doubts away.
8 Throned in the sun's descending car,What power unseen diffuseth farThis tenderness of mind?What Genius smiles on yonder flood?What God, in whispers from the wood,Bids every thought be kind?
9 O Thou, whate'er thy awful name,Whose wisdom our untoward frameWith social love restrains;Thou, who by fair affection's tiesGiv'st us to double all our joys,And half disarm our pains;
10 If far from Dyson and from meSuspicion took, by thy decree,Her everlasting flight;If firm on virtue's ample baseThy parent hand has deign'd to raiseOur friendship's honour'd height;
11 Let universal candour still,Clear as yon heaven-reflecting rill,Preserve my open mind;Nor this nor that man's crooked waysOne sordid doubt within me raiseTo injure human kind.