Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend- Aloud she shrieked! for Hermes re-appears! Round the dear Shade she would have clung-'tis vain Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved! -Yet tears to human suffering are due; From out the tomb of him for whom she died; DION. (SEE PLUTARCH.) I. FAIR is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake: Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood, And pendent rocks, where'er, in gliding state, Winds the mute Creature without visible mate Or rival, save the Queen of night Showering down a silver light, From heaven, upon her chosen favourite! II. So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace, Nor less the homage that was seen to wait With self-sufficing solitude, III. Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day! Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield, Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, To Syracuse advance in bright array. Who leads them on?-The anxious people see On tables set, as if for rites divine ; And, as the great Deliverer marches by, He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown; And flowers are on his person thrown In boundless prodigality; Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, As if a very Deity he were ! IV. Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades! For him who to divinity aspired, Not on the breath of popular applause, But through dependence on the sacred laws Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, Intent to trace the ideal path of right (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learned to measure with delight; But he hath overleaped the eternal bars; And, following guides whose craft holds no consent With aught that breathes the ethereal element, Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood, Unjustly shed, though for the public good. Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, And oft his cogitations sink as low As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, The heaviest plummet of despair can go. But whence that sudden check? that fearful start! Anon his lifted eyes Saw at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, A Shape of more than mortal size And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! And fiercely swept the marble floor,— Like Auster whirling to and fro, No V. So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt ; Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!" VI. But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; But should she labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; Whence angry perturbations, and that look Which no philosophy can brook! |