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ATHENS; 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 Sweet fount of Castalie^ and ye beside^ 
 Immortal streams ! thatjlow with tuneful lapse 
 The Muses'' bowers among, why were ye lock'd 
 From me ? 
 
 BY THE ADTHOR OP 
 
 y 
 
 Wxt Hutns of JIaestum- .^^ 
 
 
 SALEM: 
 GUSHING AND APPLETON. 
 
 1824. 
 
 A 
 

 rrs 
 
 PRINTED BY JOHN D. CUSHING, SALEM, MASS. 
 JANUARY, 1824. 
 
ATHENS; 
 
 " Cold, Athens! is the heart that looks on thee^ 
 " Mr feels as lovers o^r the dust they lov'd.^^ 
 
 Byron's Childe Harokt 
 
ATHENS. 
 
 Lo ! here, upon the sacred hill* where sleeps 
 The great Musseus, bard of old renown'd — 
 Lo ! here, amid The City's bounds, I stand.' 
 How swells the varied landscape on the eye ! 
 How glows the extended, verdant plain beneath! 
 How rural all, and pastoral, the scene ! 
 Alas ! I dream ; 'tis mere illusion this. 
 Mere mockery all ! else from this giddy height 
 The imperfect vision palters with the sense. 
 Yet why this throbbing pulse, this burning brain, 
 This more than Pythian rage within my breast ? — 
 O Heaven! 'tis now, bright Truth, thy potent sway. 
 And all the enchantment of the place, I feel : 
 The mist of errour fast dissolves away, 
 And one broad blaze of light enwraps the world. 
 Mountains and hills and vales, and isles that gem 
 The distant main, now desolate indeed, 
 And sunk inglorious 'neath the oppressor's sway. 
 
 * The Musseum hill. 
 
Yet subject once, proud Attica, to thee. 
 
 Burst on the mournful view. Prospect sublime ! 
 
 And lovely as sublime ! though only such 
 
 To him, who through the lengthen'd vista views 
 
 With gaze intent, as backward he reverts 
 
 The mental eye 'mid long revolving years, 
 
 Thy glories, Athens, and thy various fate. 
 
 But who, 'mong scenes resplendent in the page 
 
 Of the Historic Muse, shall with bold hand 
 
 Pourtray the wondrous change ; depict severe 
 
 The mournful triumphs of unsparing Time, 
 
 Or ravages of man more ruthless still ; 
 
 And over all the halo warm diffuse 
 
 Of centuries elaps'd ? And, hardier still, 
 
 Who with Promethean skill may now awake, 
 
 Though but for one short hour, the glorious spirits 
 
 Of elder time, and animate, (how vain !) 
 
 The scenes once trodden by their hallowed feet ? 
 
 And is it thee, O Athens, I behold ? 
 Thee, Athens, mistress of the land and main ! 
 Thee, mother of philosophy, and nurse 
 Of arts divine ! How sad is thy reverse ! 
 Where now of towering altitude thy walls ? 
 Say, where thy temples, fit abodes for gods 
 
Themselves, and built for immortality f 
 Where now the porticoes of Parian stone, 
 That lin'd thy streets interminable ? where 
 The bright, ethereal forms, whose archetypes 
 In heaven alone are found, or in the dreams 
 Of favour'd genius seen ? And where, ah ! where, 
 Thy heroes, patriots, sages, bards divine ? 
 Alas ! these in their urns are shrunk, and those. 
 Like visions of the night, dissolv'd in air ! 
 For here, assisted by immortal hands. 
 Here, Athens, restless toil'd thy sturdier sons : 
 To them the isles their precious stores resign'd ; 
 Seas constant groan'd beneath the freighted mass, 
 And echoing hills within thy wild domain 
 (Witness Pentelicus, embowell'd deep. 
 That still above the clouds protrudes his head) 
 Resounded with the ponderous hammer's stroke ? 
 Yet now from all the congregated weight, 
 That labouring ages had pil'd up, releas'd. 
 Behold, once more to Ceres' gentler sway 
 Restor'd, expands the beauteous plain below ! 
 
 Yet all, lov'd Athens, is not chang'd ; thy streams, 
 Thy hills, remain. Look ! where the eternal rock, 
 Yclep'd Cecropia, citadel renown'd, 
 
With front of adamant still awes the plain ; 
 And bears aloft its fane majestic,* great, 
 Though in decay, and sinking fast beneath 
 The incumbent weight of twice a thousand years. 
 Look where Hymettus lifts his ampler brow — 
 Hymettus, odorous still with balmy thyme, 
 And yielding still his fam'd mellifluous stores : 
 See too, where, lost amid the vale, extends 
 His flow'ry base, see where Ilissus glides. 
 Murmuring the Muses' early haunts among, 
 Though scarce a Naiad now may fill her urn 
 At his lov'd source. And, as thine eager eye 
 Looks westward, mark that length'ning verdant line 
 Which stretches toward the port; there, underneath 
 The olive shade, the peace-devoted tree 
 Infix'd by goddess-hands, Cephissus winds 
 His devious course, enamour'd still, as erst. 
 In dark sequester'd solitudes to roam ; 
 There too the groves of Academus rose — 
 And there, won by a mortal's voice divine, 
 Philosophy came down to charm the ears 
 Of listening men, and teach the way to Heaven ! 
 
 Immortal streams ! on your lov'd banks repos'd. 
 And still at dewy eve or morn, shadowy 
 
 * The Parthenon. 
 
Are seen, with pensive looks, light moving o'er 
 
 The plain, the forms of godlike men. There first, 
 
 Encircled by a band illustrious, see 
 
 Socrates ! born of earth, like all below. 
 
 But of a soul attemper'd to divine. 
 
 Next him, in converse sweet, behold the Man 
 
 Upon whose honied lips Persuasion hung ; 
 
 And whose deep mind, piercing the mist which here 
 
 Dark errour raises, in dull matter saw 
 
 A soul ethereal, Heaven-deriv'd ! and which 
 
 To Heaven, anon, is destin'd to return. 
 
 With these conjoin'd, a loftier form observe. 
 
 Whose brows o'ershaded deep with nodding plumes, 
 
 And breast in armour cas'd, in contrast strange 
 
 Appears. O Xenophon ! those trappings gone. 
 
 Which well became thee on Cunaxa's field. 
 
 Thou to lov'd Scillus' shades wast wont to hie. 
 
 And studious there with calm philosophy, 
 
 Delighted'st to repose. Apart from these. 
 
 Yet by the master eyed with fond regard. 
 
 See Alcibiades, of noble port. 
 
 And of a spirit restless ; seeking now 
 
 In pleasure's flowery lap to waste the hours. 
 
 And now, with contrite tears, to wash away 
 
 2 
 
10 
 
 His guilt. Thou strange epitome of man ! 
 
 Had virtue then, e'en when in charms divine 
 
 Array'd, no true delight for thee ? But lo ! 
 
 Where near Ilissus' marge, the Stagirite 
 
 With wrinkled front, amid the increasing throng 
 
 That press around, his path untir'd pursues ; 
 
 His was the art to fathom nature's depths, 
 
 Of matter to detect the various forms, 
 
 And from its hidden agency educe 
 
 The truth : yet truth, eluding still his search. 
 
 He found not. With a chosen few retir'd. 
 
 Behold in mood contemplative, not far 
 
 Beyond, the patriot and the sage ! who sought 
 
 Not the applause of foolish man, but who 
 
 For Heaven-bom virtue was surnam'd the Just : 
 
 And not remote from them, those forms august 
 
 Whose brows with laurel wreath'd, and ardent eyes 
 
 Uprais'd to Heaven, seem in high thought engag'd. 
 
 To them the Tragic Muse first deign'd to impart 
 
 Her soul-subduing spirit — them first taught 
 
 With touch Ithuriel, to unlock the springs 
 
 Of human action — waking now the soul 
 
 To noblest deeds, and firing now to acts 
 
 Of dark revenge. Yet thine, Euripides ! 
 
11 
 
 Thine was the dearest boast ; from iron hearts 
 To force the drops of pity — from the foe 
 Compassion — and from the sad captive, tears 
 Of gratitude and joy !^ But who shall count 
 The sparkling lights which glitter in the heavens ? 
 Who tell what names illustrious once adorn'd 
 This glorious seat of wisdom and of art ? 
 
 On that fam'd hill* scarce elevate the plain 
 Above, where once the indignant god of war 
 Before the assembled deities appear'd, 
 (So Fable speaks) to answer for the death 
 Of Halirrhotius, Neptune's son — thence nam'd 
 The hill of Mars — in sacred conclave met 
 The court of Areopagites, the gods 
 Of this low world ! Pavilion'd in thick darkness, 
 And from obtrusive cares shut out, beneath 
 The open sky the great assembly sat 
 Justice was theirs, unbending and severe — 
 By wily art of orator unmov'd, 
 By pow'r unaw'd; but yet by mercy sweet 
 Attemper'd, and to wisdom's voice not deaf 
 Great Solon! once by Lydia's throneless king, 
 Cowering beneath the Persian despot's frown, 
 
 * The hill of the Areopagus. 
 
12 
 
 Pronounc'd wisest of men!' such was the court 
 August, 'stablish'd by thee* But soon amid 
 The ever varying scenes of earth, its power 
 Was oft abus'd, and Justice thence expell'd, 
 That crime a short-Hv'd triumph might obtain. 
 In after age, once summon'd to this court, 
 Stood here, majestic, one, whose lofty port, 
 And eye of fire, and Heav'n-inspired tongue, 
 Flash'd strange conviction in th' ignoble crew,^ 
 Whom folly gather'd to adjudge his cause. 
 Methinks e'en now, towering aloft like him. 
 The martial god, whose statue seem'd to quake 
 And tremble at his words — methinks e'en now 
 I see the holy man, emphatic term'd 
 The Apostle of the Gentiles ! here he stood, 
 Unmov'd and undismay'd at aught his foes 
 Might in their malice impotent invent ; 
 In flowing robe, with outstretch'd arms, and head 
 Uncover'd, ardent the great advocate 
 His cause defended, boldly preaching Him, 
 " The unknown God," whom ignorant they ador'd. 
 Raphael ! what wondrous art was that of thine : 
 Such as he was, to us thou hast reveal'd 
 The godlike man. Before his form august, 
 
 * To speak strictly, was new modelled by him. 
 
13 
 
 Philosophy, in Stoic guise severe, 
 Or Cynic stern, or Epicurean soft, 
 (In the thin robe of meretricious art 
 All veil'd alike) confounded and abash'd, 
 Thou hast depictur'd :* while, low at his feet. 
 The humble neophyte, with grateful heart, 
 And look that speaks conviction, eager lists 
 The man divine, and breathes intenser love 
 Tow'rd Him whose glorious messenger he is. 
 
 That gentle eminencet where the oaten pipe 
 Of shepherd now alone is heard, whose slope 
 Is turned to the setting sun, full oft 
 Was press'd by the fond many ! thither throng'd, 
 Tumultuous, the giddy people, pleas'd 
 To mix in matters of the state, and weigh 
 The destinies of realms, though all too weak 
 To rule the little empire of the heart. 
 Ye gods ! how often have they vex'd the skies 
 With their obstreperous mirth — or forc'd the tear 
 At sight of folly so consummate, from 
 The philosophic eye — or blanch'd the cheek 
 Of innocence, by violence condemn'd, 
 O better far that here the golden ear 
 
 * See the Cartoon of" Paul preaching at Athens." 
 t The Pnyx Hill. 
 
14 
 
 Should annual to the sickle bend — the grape 
 
 Yield its rich juice luxurious — or flocks 
 
 Graze harmless the declivous hill, than wild 
 
 Democracy, with fell demoniac rage, 
 
 And torrent's mighty force, should here bear sway. 
 
 High over these, in endless perspective, 
 Arise the lofty summits of the hills 
 Which frown o'er the Athenian vales : and far 
 Beyond, though dimly seen (to fancy's eye 
 Except) Parnassus, and bright Helicon, 
 And Jove's OAvn mount Olympus, to the skies 
 Proudly their cloudy coronets exalt. 
 Anchesmus first his conic top obtrudes, 
 High towering ; then the rocky heights of dark 
 Pentelicus, that witness'd the defeat 
 Of Persia's host on Marathonia's plain : 
 Where, like a brinded lion, breathing flame. 
 Resistless rushing on his prey, was seen 
 Miltiades ! Victory in his van, 
 And Death, and Havoc, and Destruction, swift 
 Following in his rear, empurpling deep 
 The thirsty soil with blood of recreant foes. 
 Next these Brilessus, Parnes, stretch in chain 
 Continuous their rugged lines along 
 
15 
 
 The dim horizon ; there the Athenian youth 
 Oft met in manly fray the tusked boar, 
 And triumph'd in the fight. Far to the west, 
 Cithaeron hfts his sacred head, and 'mid 
 His secret caves, still lists the echoes wild 
 Of sad Actseon's voice ! or borne anon 
 Upon the midnight blast, affrighted hears 
 The dying shrieks that mournful then ascend 
 From Leuctra's, or Platsea's bloody fields. 
 And where, jEgaleos, thy darkling cliffs, 
 Spuming the ruffian waves, majestic rise. 
 There, bright in eastern pomp, glitt'ring in gold 
 And Tyrian purple, 'mid his suppliant slaves. 
 Sat the Great King ! and saw, with heart appall'd, 
 His coward myriads shrinking from the storm 
 Rais'd by collision dire with Grecian foes — 
 Themistocles himself a mighty host ! — 
 And ignominious seeking 'neath the wave 
 A shelter from their wrath. Proud Xerxes ! when 
 From throne of costliest gems, aloft thou view'dst, 
 Covering the Asian plains, the multitude 
 Immense led on by thee to battle — thou 
 Wast fain to shed ' some natural tears ' at sight 
 So grievous :* now perchance when hurrying wild 
 
16 
 
 O'er plains of Thessaly, or scaling swift, 
 By wings of fear upborne, the frowning heights 
 Of Macedon and Thrace (leaving thy hordes 
 To gorge the vulture fierce) a bitterer tear 
 For thine own fate, vain monarch, secret fell. 
 
 Southward now turn, and view the expanse of sea 
 That stretches out in boundless longitude, 
 From Corinth's towers, that wide o'erlook the gulphs 
 Which, there disparted, strive in vain to meet — 
 To Scyllseum's promontory bold — and thence 
 To Hydra's barren shores, by Commerce made 
 To blossom as the rose. Hydra ! thy name 
 Not less than prouder Salamis, shall long 
 The patriot muse delight : thy flag now floats 
 In triumph o'er the sea, and as it waves. 
 The Crescent pales. But look ! where in the midst, 
 jEgina rises with the sacred fane 
 Of Panhellenian Jove : and, as a speck 
 On Ocean's bosom, see Calauria's isle, 
 At once the refuge and the grave of him* 
 Who singly and alone a tyrant's threats 
 Defy'd, and fulmin'd in a monarch's ear ! 
 But if thy vision keen extend so far, 
 
 * Demosthenes. 
 
17 
 
 Now look abroad— survey the wide ^gsean ! 
 
 Amid those gems of ocean, Cyclades 
 
 So nam'd, let thy enchanted eye awhile 
 
 Repose -, and there, slow rising from the waves, 
 
 See flow'ry Delos, once the soft abode 
 
 Of bright Latona, and her heav'nly twins. 
 
 See Naxos, with his vine-empurpled hills ; 
 
 Where, hid in myrtle bower, the Cretan maid 
 
 Entranced lay : but ah ! too soon awaking 
 
 From her soft dream of love, descried afar 
 
 The faithless Theseus bounding o'er the wave. 
 
 There Paros, dear to art, his lofty brow 
 
 Shadowy amid the emerald sea erects ; 
 
 Revealing to the curious eye alone. 
 
 His dazzling caves, whence Egypt's mighty fanes 
 
 Of wondrous fabric, or thy temples fair 
 
 Renowned Greece, were with a giant's strength 
 
 Uprais'd.^ Thence too were ta'en those precious 
 
 In which celestial forms were oft conceal'd ; [blocks, 
 
 Till Genius, breathing on the mass inert, 
 
 Dissolv'd the spell, and gave to radiant day 
 
 Their forms divine. Than these still nearer, view 
 
 The cliffs of Seriphos, where, wafted once 
 
 From Argos' treacherous shore, the little bark 
 
 3 
 
18 
 
 With its lov'd freight, the progeny of Jove, 
 
 And his sad mother fair, fast anchor'd lay. 
 
 O Perseus ! wild as tale of Araby, 
 
 Is the light web by Fiction wove, of thy 
 
 Too marvellous life. With verdure ever bright, 
 
 Far to the south, the beauteous los seems 
 
 To float upon the wave. 'Mid laurel groves, 
 
 And overshadowing bays, and flowers that bloom 
 
 Perennial, loading the enamour'd gales 
 
 With perfumes, here, as in the bowers of bliss 
 
 To lyres immortal he attunes his own, 
 
 Reposes mighty Homer's shade ! But when 
 
 The tempest wakes the wrathful deep, and winds 
 
 Rude music make, majestic then anon 
 
 To some high beetling cliff* it stalks, and dreams 
 
 That still, amid the battle's din, it hears 
 
 The shouts of victor Greece, and mourns once more, 
 
 Or seems to mourn, the matchless Hector slain, 
 
 And Ilion's nodding towers ! From thence, perchance 
 
 Thy piercing view the rosy isle* may reach. 
 
 Where Beauty, like the soft-eyed Day, when first 
 
 From ocean's pearly caves he lifts his head, 
 
 Resplendent rose ; graceful her dewy locks 
 
 *Cythera. 
 
19 
 
 With circling arms upholding, while around 
 The fragrant zephyrs joyous fan their wings, 
 And Love immortal, with the heavenly train 
 Of Graces, rapt'rous the bright goddess hail ! 
 Venus ! thou sovereign arbitress of heaven — 
 Delight of gods and men ! 'twas thus amid 
 The soft retreats of Cos (where slumb'ring lay 
 The lovely boy, by thine own handmaids nurs'd) 
 To young Apelles thou wast oft reveal'd — 
 Apelles, now immortal too like thee. 
 
 But where, lov'd Muse, amid the ideal fields 
 Of song dost wander ? There delighted hast 
 Thou rov'd, as when among the flow'ry vales [oft, 
 And blooming bowers of earth thou stray'st; wher& 
 With an enchantress sweet, the hours soft flow 
 In silence eloquent as words that burn. 
 O Nature ! with primeval charms adorn'd, 
 Thou ever riot'st in unfading youth ; 
 While man, scarce heir of one poor hour, laments 
 His shorten'd date, and loud 'gainst Time inveighs 
 (Himself more fell !) and deprecates his power. 
 Fond fool ! behold where solitary stand 
 Like giants 'mid a pigmy race of men. 
 The lofty pillars of the Olympian Jove ! 
 
20 
 
 Stood these alone, expos'd from earliest time, 
 Without or roof, or architrave, or frieze 
 With storied sculptures wrought by hand divine f 
 Or hath the thunderbolt of Jove himself 
 Destroy'd the pile sublime, and yawning earth 
 Ingulph'd the cumbrous ruin ? Impious thought ! 
 Thou self destroyer, man ! 'twas thou alone 
 Who from its solid base, with madd'ning rage, 
 Not then, as once, with strength endued by Heav'n^ 
 Uprais'd the ponderous mass, and furious hurl'd 
 Its hundred columns thundering to the ground. 
 Witness ye monuments that skirt the plain, 
 And ye that tott'ring yet, yet menace oft 
 The adventurous traveller 'mid these classic scenes, 
 Witness the blind, the fell revenge of man ! 
 And thou, the marvel of each wondering age. 
 At once the shame and glory of the world, 
 Majestic Parthenon!" do thou attest, 
 (Alas ! thou canst not long attest) the wrath 
 Inveterate of him, whose plastic hand 
 First drew thee from the cavern'd quarry dark, 
 Ador'd the matchless work himself had rais'd, [base. 
 And then (most strange perverseness !) sapp'd thy 
 Forgive, immortal shade ! I do thee wrong, 
 
21 
 
 O Pericles ! Not to the Greek, forsooth, 
 Of elder or of modern time, belongs 
 The lasting shame ; nor to the Turk alone : 
 Venice, far more to thee ! and, Elgin, much 
 (Though not to England) much indeed to thee. 
 Hah! whence that plaint? at mention of his name), 
 Methought upon the breeze a mournful sigh 
 Came floating sad, as if some secret grief 
 Prey'd on a widow'd heart. Alas the cause ! 
 Say, Elgin, didst thou hear that wild lament 
 When, with the spoiler's rage, the hallowed porch 
 Thou enter'dst rude, and tore away the maid? 
 O bootless plunder ! O barbaric spoil ! 
 That precious fane,* the Goths of every age, 
 The Christian and the infidel, had spar'd : 
 For thee alone, to mar the beauteous work 
 It was reserv'd. E'er since that fatal day, 
 The fond companions of the captive fair 
 Her absence have deplor'd ; and every gale 
 That hovers near, on sympathetic wing. 
 The sadd'ning plaint to distant climes conveys.' 
 
 Yet one remains, the refuge of despair 
 In other times, but, ah ! no refuge now 
 
 .*, TMe little temple of Fandrosus, on the Acropolis. 
 
22 
 
 To helpless Greece — the temple built by him, 
 
 The patriot hero to the patriot king.* 
 
 Look ! where in pristine majesty it stands, 
 
 Though dimm'd its lustre, and despoil'd of all 
 
 The boasted treasures of the chisell'd art. 
 
 Thou splendid monument of elder time ! 
 
 Were but thy base deep founded as his fame, 
 
 Thy fabric stable as his virtue's rock. 
 
 The warring elements in vain should beat, 
 
 And earth itself to its foundation shake, 
 
 Yet 'mid the dire commotion thou remain ! [endure 
 
 Thou phrensied Gaul !' could'st thou the thought 
 
 To wrest this dearest relick from the soil, 
 
 To plant it impious on a foreign strand ? 
 
 Shade of immortal Theseus, arise ! 
 
 In dreadful majesty appear once more. 
 
 And palsy with benumbing fear what hand 
 
 Shall sacrilegious dare attempt the deed. 
 
 Yet even this, this stately pile, must fall ; 
 
 So too that prouder fane by PhidiaS built ; 
 
 So all these vestiges august! Time saps 
 
 Their base, and rude barbaric hands assail 
 
 The superstructure. When, upon a day 
 
 * The temple of Theseus : it was erected in honour of thftt- hdro by Cimon, 
 the son of Miltiades. 
 
23 
 
 Not distant, some lone pilgrim shall demand 
 Where Athens stood ? perchance he may be told 
 To go and seek it on another spot ; — 
 The startled hunter says, it is not here ! 
 
 O tale of wonder ! tale in after age 
 Of hard belief — incredible in this ! 
 That Europe's sons, who owe to Greece the lights 
 Of science and of song, the boon of arts 
 And every nobler gift, should passive view 
 Her shores polluted by a barbarous foe ! 
 That they, whose banner is the Cross, should still 
 Reckless behold it trampled in the dust, — 
 While, swell'd to torrents, streams the precious blood 
 From Grecian veins, a deeper stain to dye 
 Than e'er empurpled yet the hallowed soiL 
 O England, dear to liberty ! at once 
 The stay, support, defender of the oppress'd. 
 Canst thou not hear when heavenly pity pleads 
 In such a cause ? ah ! from what height, how fall'n. 
 And thou, whose virgin vows for freedom breathed 
 My darling Country ! to whose outstretch'd arm.s 
 The wretched flee for safety and repose, 
 Must thou too, all resistless as thou art. 
 Withhold thy timely succour in an hour, 
 
24 
 
 That or restores to Greece her noblest birthrightj 
 Or else indissolubly binds her chains ! 
 It cannot — shall not be ! Greece shall survive — 
 But hark ! e'en now, methinks, I hear the shout 
 Of despot power, and now the deep'ning groans 
 Of an expiring land ! Indignant Heaven ! 
 The Moslem triumphs, while the sons of sires 
 Illustrious, drink death at savage hands. 
 Spirit of ancient Greece ! that sitt'st enthron'd 
 Upon thy everlasting hills, descend ! 
 Stoop from on high — swell loud the heroic trump ! 
 From impious foes quick snatch the bleeding band, 
 Burst their rude bonds, and crush, remorseless crush, 
 The stern oppressors of a glorious race. 
 
SCIO 
 
 ETC, 
 
 4 
 
SCIO 
 
 A dream ! thou say''st ; ^tis not such stuff as dreams' 
 Are made of. 
 
 Oh, what a dream of honours has been mine 1* 
 Lost in a pleasing reverie at first, 
 Methought that on the instant I was borne 
 Upon the viewless winds, far to the east. 
 To where the sun from cloudless sky peers fortk,. 
 And from Ionian hills darts his slant beams 
 O'er all the ^gsean. There arriv'd as quick, 
 Methought, I glad alighted on an Isle 
 Lav'd by the violet waves, that seem'd to my 
 Astonish'd gaze a place of pure delights, 
 A paradise below ! Throughout the wide 
 Extent, gay villages, and glittering towns. 
 And cottages, appear'd ; and over all 
 The land the happy people careless rov'd, 
 Or, deep conceal'd within their rosy bowers, 
 They sung the joys of love — or, luU'd anon 
 
28 
 
 By the soft murmurings of the bee, in dreams 
 Repeated all their joys. Buoyant as air, 
 And gay as unconcem'd, the livelier youth 
 Were seen to skim the plain, or, 'neath the shade, 
 With the bright nymphs of rapture-beaming eye. 
 They in the dance were link'd. The empurpled hills 
 Were festoon'd with the vine ; the vallies wav'd 
 With golden grain ; the olive and the fig [wide 
 Seem'd with their luscious fruits surcharg'd ; and 
 Through air the citron, and, of deeper tinge. 
 The fragrant orange, all their sweets efFus'd. 
 Such was that blissful scene ! But as I stood 
 Upon the sun-bright hill, breathing delight 
 And gazing on the lovely world beneath, 
 Lo ! in the east a blacken'd cloud appear'd, 
 Sweeping the horizon round, and, up to heav'n 
 Ascending quick, o'ershadow'd all the earth. 
 The orb of day, I thought, was struck from heav'n — 
 His golden beams all quench'd ! for midnight reign'd, 
 Black as was Erebus ; and SUence' self 
 Stood fix'd in breathless expectation. Me 
 A chilling awe, the harbinger of death, 
 Methought had seized, and down I powerless sunk ; 
 But, as I lay supine upon the ground. 
 
29 
 
 Immediate all the vaulted sky was fir'd, 
 And horrid shrieks, and groans, and piteous cries^ 
 With yells of triumph intermix'd, my ear 
 Assail'd. Upon my feet, startled, I sprang, 
 As if by sudden strength endued, and cast 
 My wildering eye around. O, God of man ! 
 What did I there behold? From every town, 
 Whence the glad hum of busy multitudes 
 But now arose — from every smiling cot, 
 And hamlet gay, the angry flames and smoke. 
 In volumes dun, portentous stream'd thro' heav'ni 
 While by the ominous light, scouring the land, 
 I saw, spread far and wide, a ruffian horde. 
 And in their hideous train the monster crew- 
 Slaughter, and Lust, and Crime. As when a flock. 
 At sight of some grim tenant of the wild. 
 Flies devious o'er the plain, nor stops to look 
 Behind — so from their impious foes, I thought, 
 Fled swift the hapless race. But safety none, 
 Nor refuge, could they find. Even valour then 
 Was powerless, taken by surprise ; or, press'd 
 By numbers, fought, hopeless of victory. 
 At first, with mad revenge, the harden'd foe 
 Slew all — ^youth, childhood, age, the softer sex. 
 
30 
 
 All fell their prey. But when they spar'd, 'twas 
 
 worse : 
 Men were their victims, and the blooming youth, 
 Aspiring to be men. Lo ! weltering in 
 Their gore they lie, while o'er their breathless clay 
 The dastards revel. Ah ! how blest your fate, 
 Ye slaughter'd fathers, sons ! I pitying thought ; 
 Ye hear no more the wild laments, the shrieks. 
 Which rend the air ; ye view no more your wives, 
 Your mothers, bending frantic o'er the slain ; 
 Or, wing'd with fear, fly desperate to the beach, 
 And of the winds and waves ask succour, while. 
 Deaf to their cries, the winds and waves repel 
 The trembling fugitives. Your daughters too — 
 Oh, sight of horrour ! No — ye see not them 
 Fast in your murderers' arms — their stifled cries 
 Ye list not, though the rifted rocks recoil 
 Affrighted, and the heavens more darkly frown. 
 But, sick at heart, and struck aghast at sight 
 Of such polluted scenes, where, in the forms 
 Of men, the fiends of hell seem'd all let loose 
 To prey upon mankind, methought I turn'd 
 Away, and glad had clos'd my eyes in death : 
 When, as by some enchanter's touch, the scene 
 
31 
 
 Again was chang'd. A lurid sky was all 
 
 That I perceiv'd above, while the Avide earth 
 
 Was one extended waste, where Solitude 
 
 Her sceptre joyless sway'd. The vine-clad hills, 
 
 The golden plains, and trees surcharg'd with fruit> 
 
 Had vanish'd all ; mute was the voice of love, 
 
 And dead to joy the land. Mournful I gaz'd, 
 
 And still stood fix'd to gaze, when from the shores 
 
 Remote a numerous fleet I saw depart, 
 
 And on the treacherous decks a frantic crowd — 
 
 The wives, the daughters, of this happy Isle, 
 
 Now slaves of Cruelty and Lust ! at this 
 
 Abhorred view I felt my bosom swell 
 
 To bursting, and with double rage I burnt 
 
 To slay the tyrants. But on the instant check'd, 
 
 I with surprise ineffable beheld 
 
 Alighting from a dazzling cloud, upon 
 
 The hill where then I stood, a goddess form ! 
 
 Bright with immortal charms she stood ; and, cas'd 
 
 In heavenly panoply, her glittering spear 
 
 She wav'd. I saw, and, humbled to the dust, 
 
 Methought I prostrate fell ; when, with a voice 
 
 Of more than earthly dignity, these words, 
 
 Gracious, she thus vouchsaf 'd : " Mortal ! in me 
 
32 
 
 "^ Behold the majesty of Greece ! I long 
 " Have view'd her 'sons indignant groan beneath 
 " The oppressor's rod. The slaves of slaves, they felt 
 " Their iron bonds corrode the soul. They breath'd 
 " Revenge : Revenge ! they loud exclaim— and hiUs 
 " And vales repeat with one acclaim, revenge ! 
 " The time has come when the barbaric host 
 " Shall yield to freemen — when, inspir'd by me, 
 " Greece from her shores the impious foe again 
 " Shall drive ; or once more with their blood shall 
 
 drench 
 " Platsea's plain, and Marathon's proud field ! 
 " Arise then, son of earth ! nor let thy soul 
 " Despair : the gods — yea, the great God of heaven 
 *' And earth, in such a cause, will lend his aid. 
 " Greece yet shall live — shall triumph o'er her foes!" 
 This said, immediate in a golden cloud 
 The heavenly vision was again involv'd, 
 And snatch'd from view. For me, lost and perplex'd, 
 Now cheer'd, now plung'd in grief, stung by despair 
 Or fir'd by hate, aloud I maddening call'd 
 (Or thought I call'd) on heaven ! on earth ! for aid; 
 And, with the effort made, at once awoke. 
 
INVOCATION 
 
 TO HEALTH. 
 
 Daughter of Heav'n ! to thee, from whose bright eyes 
 The purest beam of joy ineffable, 
 As from the sun his vivifying ray, 
 Divinely emanates, to thee I wake 
 The lyre, and to my adventurous strain thy aid 
 Invoke. Fair queen of smiles, queen of delights 
 Which none but those who worship thee can feel, 
 And feeling paint — Hygeia, hail ! Thy brows 
 The immortal amaranth, intermingled gay 
 With roses dipt in blushing clouds of morn, 
 Irradiates. Round thy bright form divine 
 A purple-tinctured robe fantastic waves, 
 The sport of zephyrs, bearing on their wings 
 Unnumber'd perfumes : while, with lavish hands 
 Strewing thy steps with flowers, and to the sound 
 Of sweetest music dancing, thy blest train, [them, 
 The Hours, weave their light measures. O ! with 
 With thee, bright goddess, let me ever taste 
 
34 
 
 Supernal joy. Whether with thee, to scale 
 The mountain heights abrupt, when from the East 
 The young-eyed Day first shoots his level beams 
 Along their tops, panting I climb — or seek, 
 With thee, the shadowy groves at sultry noon, 
 Or else, at dewy eve, eager with thee 
 I hie me where extends the grassy vale 
 Its sinuous length— to me 'tis equal bliss. 
 
 Where'er thou beckonest, pleas'd, I follow swift. 
 Sure that no dangers lurk within thy paths, 
 Where gladness ever reigns. There no gaunt forms^ 
 The abhorrent brood of Sickness and Despair, 
 Appal the view ; nor finds the monster Death 
 His victims there. Oh ! no : on beds of down, 
 In Luxury's soft lap, at the gay feast, 
 Amid the revel and the song, he seeks 
 (Invisible himself) whom he may pierce : 
 Insidious flies his shaft, and wounds who least 
 Suspect the blow ; or, with pestiferous breath, 
 He taints the fount of life. Ah ! little knows 
 The wretch, who feels the arrow sent to kill, 
 He whom pale sickness, with benumbing touch. 
 Has stretch'd upon his couch the livelong day, 
 And sadder night, the joys that flow from health. 
 
35 
 
 The glorious morn, dispensing light from heav'n, 
 
 No rapture brings to him — the mountain breeze 
 
 Nor tingles in his veins, nor with delight 
 
 Forever new his breast dilates — no flowers. 
 
 Nurtured in genial soil, expand and bloom 
 
 To cheer his languid view, or to exhale 
 
 For him their sweets. Nature herself, indeed, 
 
 To the unhappy man seems sick at heart ; 
 
 Does he but hear the rustling breeze, he starts 
 
 As if he felt the death-wind passing by 
 
 To sweep him to the tomb ; if but a ray 
 
 Of the all-cheering sun — cheering to all 
 
 But him — salute his eyes, how does he shrink 
 
 From the blest beam, as if along with it 
 
 Contagion dire and pestilence were borne. 
 
 Alas, for thee, beloved Frisbie ! Was 
 That effluence divine, that fervid ray, 
 Fatal to thee ? Didst thou too learn to sigh 
 Upon the bed of sickness ? Didst thou feel 
 That faintness of the soul oppressing life, 
 When hope is long deferr'd ? Too true, thou didst : 
 And thou couldst tell how many a pang it cost 
 To part forever from a world so lov'd. 
 Yet at the last, O envied fate ! thou heardst 
 
36 
 
 A voice, a still small voice, that whispered peace 
 
 To thee ; and, as the fatal hour drew nigh 
 
 Which sever'd thee from us, a seraph-form, 
 
 Descending from the skies, shewed thee the gates 
 
 Of everlasting bliss, and, wiping quick 
 
 Thy tears away, bade thee to enter in. 
 
 Ah ! who may hope that his career shall end 
 
 So tranquilly as thine ; who hope like thee 
 
 To find upon the pillow of Disease 
 
 A solace for the pangs which rend at once 
 
 The wasted flesh, and lacerate the heart ! 
 
 O then with healing in thy wings be near, 
 Be to thy votary always near, and let 
 My grateful vows to thee be ever paid, 
 Hygeia ! What is the laurell'd wreath to him 
 Who basks not in thy smile ? what guerdon fair 
 Can fame bestow to compensate its loss ? 
 If thou withdraw'st thy heavenly aid, thy smile 
 Beneficent, instant the warrior's arm 
 Sinks neiTeless by his side, and from his brows 
 Unheeded falls the crown of victory. 
 The sage, who nightly pours upon the page 
 Of wisdom his dim eye, forgetting thee, 
 As studious he sits by the pale lamp. 
 
37 
 
 Anon, with look of vacancy beholds 
 
 His laurels blasted, but without a sigh. 
 
 The poet too, whom thou hadst taught to soar 
 
 Upon the morning's wings, far higher than 
 
 His fabled Pegasus — high as the stars 
 
 Of heaven, with lyre unstrung, and moist with dew 
 
 (Not Castalie's sweet dew !) drooping descends, 
 
 If thou desert him in his flight. But O \ 
 
 Mark the fond lover as he joyous weaves 
 
 The myrtle and the rosy wreath, and binds 
 
 With them unbroken faith and constancy : 
 
 Sudden, bereft of thee, vanish his smiles, 
 
 A chilling frost steals o'er his frame, he drops 
 
 The flow'ry braid now tarnished with his tears. 
 
 And yields resistless to his mournful fate. 
 
 Mysterious sympathy ! Strange that the soul. 
 That spark ethereal, unquenchable. 
 Never to die, should with this baser mould 
 Be affianc'd ! Stranger still, that, being so, 
 It should be e'er elated or depress'd 
 By what its humble, low associate 
 Or suffers, or enjoys. Nor only so : 
 To all the " skyey influences," alike, 
 'Tis subject too. The vernal sun — the bow 
 
38 
 
 Glittering 'mid April showers — the wide blue vault 
 
 Of heaven, and balmy gale — as seen, or felt, 
 
 Exert propitious o'er them both a bland 
 
 And secret sway ; while the cold damps of night — 
 
 The air imprison'd long — the lurid storm. 
 
 And voUied lightning dread, unhinge the springs 
 
 Of life, and all the trembling soul appal. 
 
 Ah ! who shall solve the problem dark of man ! 
 
 To the gay child of Fancy I no more 
 
 Address my prayers : But O ! do TTiou that sitt'st 
 
 Above all thrones, whose dwelling is the fount 
 
 Of truth and joy, do thou conduct me where 
 
 I fain would go. Amid the mazy paths 
 
 Of errour I am lost : amid this vale. 
 
 This dark sublunar vale, I seek in vain 
 
 That healing power, which can at once restore 
 
 The languid body, and a balm infuse 
 
 Into the deep recesses of the soul. 
 
THE 
 
 OCEAN-TRAVELLERS 
 
 With what a giddy and vivacious joy 
 The sons of ocean hasten to the strand, 
 And eager mount the stately bark, to hie 
 They know not where, yet feverish to depart. 
 Alas ! what toils, what dangers, and what careSj 
 The restless fugitives attend. Some far 
 'Mid polar seas adventurous urge the prow 
 To where Leviathan disports, anon 
 To yield upon the purple tide his life 
 And bulk immense to man, if (fate severe !) 
 The hapless bark, 'twixt icy mountains wedg'd, 
 Be crush'd not. Some to Europe's peopled shores, 
 Far up the Baltic, or the midland sea, 
 Where beauteous Greece, with liberty, expires, 
 Advance ; or skirt the shores of Erin, or, 
 Bright Albion! rush into thy busy ports, 
 Fill'd with the navies of the subject world. 
 Some to the South sail devious. 'Mid the Isles 
 
40 
 
 That blossom with the cane, and stretch around 
 And fill the bosom of the Mexic gulph, 
 Thousands are lur'd ; but in the scented gales 
 They sicken and expire. Others, more bold, 
 Beyond the mighty Capes adventure, toss'd 
 By storms, or driven by the blast ; and thence 
 Diverging, meet no more — or only meet 
 At the antipodes : these the bright sun 
 Salutes, as o'er the eastern seas they bound, 
 Or coast the shores of Afric, or of Ind ; 
 While those the smooth Pacific skim, or 'mid 
 The ocean-isles, where the brown nymphs their 
 
 charms 
 Guileless reveal, their mazy track pursue. 
 But endless were the task to follow round 
 The watery world the hardy race, who claim 
 No less the muse's pity than her song. 
 Where'er they go, danger still follows swift, 
 Disease o'ertakes, or purple plague destroys. 
 Ye sullen waves, that murmur round the shores 
 Of Java's isle malignant, say ! — for ye 
 Can tell — what numbers there repose beneath 
 The turbid tide. There manhood in his prime, 
 And youth elate with hope, all sink alike. 
 
41 
 
 Invisible the infectious Spirit walks 
 
 The wave, and, 'mid the affrighted souls whom love 
 
 Of gold or wild adventure thither sends, 
 
 Darts pestilence and death ! Nor did he spare 
 
 My dear Arion ! from his tender cheek 
 
 The rose immediate wither'd, as the ifiend 
 
 Too rudely breath'd, and down he sunk, unheard^ 
 
 Unwept ! Ye zephyrs bland ! ye balmy gales ! 
 
 Could ye not lift his head ? Ye Naiads too, 
 
 Enamour'd as ye were ! could ye not save 
 
 The beauteous boy ? For him, for you, I weep ! 
 
 But why these partial tears ? Condemn'd to drink 
 
 The briny wave, what thousands die, and leave 
 
 No brother to relate their piteous tale ! 
 
 Now, by the tempest dash'd, the fragile bark 
 
 Is strewn upon the mountain waves, and all 
 
 Are lost ! Now, in the smooth but treacherous calm, 
 
 Amid a boundless solitude of sea. 
 
 Sudden the vessel sinks, and as the waves 
 
 Collapse, one piercing shriek ascends to heaven ! 
 
 And strait through all the amplitude of sky 
 
 A dread repose ensues. Yet happy such. 
 
 Thrice happy, when to those compar'd whose fate 
 
 Ordains to linger out their lives (their hopes, 
 
 6 
 
42 
 
 Their fortunes shipwreck'd !) while to a rude plank 
 Alone, or thing as frail, a little skiff. 
 Tenacious they adhere ; and view aghast, 
 Where'er they turn, the phantom of despair 
 Still brooding o'er the waves. Alas for thee, 
 (Too rightly nam'd) Medusa !* who shall tell 
 What horrors once were thine ? who dare behold ? 
 If the bold hand of fancy could depict 
 The dreadful scene. Not Gallia's sons, her gay 
 Mercurial sons, that laugh at pain, and in 
 The battle's heat brave death in thousand forms. 
 Could undismay'd then meet the tyrant's frowns. 
 As when on some unwary head alights 
 The thunderbolt, so terrible the shock 
 To them ! In noon of midnight too it came. 
 When, lost in feverish sleep, or dreams of love. 
 The careless crew repos'd. Wild with affright, 
 They start, they spring upon the deck ! some wield 
 The dexterous axe, and some the cordage cut — 
 Sudden the masts fall thundering down — the decks 
 Are clear'd— boats launch'd— and all prepare, should 
 
 dire 
 Necessity impel, to spurn the wreck. 
 
 * The name of a French frigate which was shipwrecl^ed in the African seas. 
 
43 
 
 Then comes a mighty surge, and in the deep 
 Whelms half the abject host ! and, rent in twain. 
 The shatter'd bark with twice a hundred souls. 
 Scarce floats upon the wave, lash'd to and fro 
 As suits theunpitying Avinds. There all nightlong^ 
 And many a day — dark as the blackest night. 
 With horrours fiU'd — to fragments of the wreck, 
 Grappling with death, they cling ! But all in vain. 
 Some desperate plunge beneath the tide, and now 
 No more are seen ! Some frantic stand and call 
 On Heaven for aid, that Heaven had ne'er invok'd 
 Before ! Some, stung by hunger and despair, 
 With madness rave, and slay their fellows ! Those, 
 With horrid rage, their famish'd appetites 
 Allay by feasting on the dead — and these 
 With atrophy expire ! A wretched few 
 Alone escape ; the rest, forever hid 
 In ocean's coral caves, lie weltering deep ! 
 
MUTUAL LOVE. 
 
 " Ofair encounter 
 " Of two most rare affections ."' 
 
 There is a moment in the life of man 
 Most happy even to my sombre view — 
 It is the moment of revealed love ! 
 Nay, scoff not ye profane ; 'tis not for you 
 The muse inglorious sings : no, nor for you 
 Who sordid find a substitute for love 
 In drossy ore. Would'st know what time I deem 
 Thus fortunate ? ' Tis when the gentle nymph, 
 With blushes sweet, avows to him she loves 
 The passion of her heart — in modish phrase, 
 Consents to be beloved ! O Heaven and Earth ! 
 How are ye both in happy unison 
 Combin'd, to bless the lover then, and shed 
 Your sweetest, purest influence on him, 
 On every thing around. No phrensy wild, 
 No tumult of the thoughts, disturb the breast 
 In that propitious hour ; but all is calm 
 
45 
 
 And bright as summer seas, reflecting mild 
 The lustre of the morn. Joy sits serene 
 Upon the youthful brow, and plumes secure 
 His golden wings ; while tenderness dissolves 
 The soul. The lover's eye, whene'er it meets 
 The timid fair's, or bashfid shrinks — or, fix'd 
 An instant there, where shine love's lambent orbs. 
 Drinks in the soft effulgence. When she speaks,^ 
 He thinks it is a seraph's voice he hears, 
 And lists the while delighted, and could still 
 Forever listen to the strain. But if. 
 Perchance, his lips should press her yielding hand, 
 What sudden joy immediate thrills the frame, 
 And fills the bosom of the favour'd youth ! 
 The soul, in the soft hour thus rapturous spent 
 In blessing and in being blest, finds joy 
 It never knew till then, nor craves for more. 
 Yet if a thought should wander, still the heart 
 O'erflows with love ; for, seated by the nymph 
 Ador'd, the youth impassion'd feels his breast 
 Dilate ; and with the love he breathes for her. 
 Is mingled warm a prayer for all that live. 
 Meantime the heavens serener smile, and seem 
 To Fancy's view — seem to the blissful pair. 
 
46 
 
 Replete with joyous beings like themselves t 
 And over all the earth — upon the hills 
 And mountain tops, and in the blooming vales 
 The notes of gladness ring, and wide proclaim 
 The soften'd triumph of the infant god. 
 Tell me, ye virtuous few, ye who in youth's 
 Ecstatic hour have felt, and ye who now 
 In bloom of adolescence feel, the bliss 
 Of being lov'd — tell me if such is not 
 The image of a pure and hallowed love. 
 
THE 
 
 WEDDED PAIR 
 
 " Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv''st unseen 
 
 Within thy aery shell, 
 By slow Meander's margent green, — 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair 
 
 Most like to these ?" 
 
 The rosy hours of childhood are most sweet—* 
 And sweet the purple morn of youth — sweet too 
 The happy moment of revealed love. 
 But O ! how sweeter far the joys of him 
 Who clasps, transported, to his breast the nymph 
 Whose only vows were breath'd for him — for whom 
 'Tis bliss to live — for whom 'twere bliss to die ! 
 For ask the lover now with nuptial crown 
 Adorn'd, and link'd by Hymen's silken chain 
 To her whose virgin beauty fir'd his heart, 
 And whose serener graces of the mind 
 Had touch'd his soul, if happiness to one 
 Poor fleeting moment, or perchance, to years, 
 Of undissembled, prosperous love 's confined ? 
 Exulting he will answer, no ! nor would 
 
48 
 
 He now exchange one hour of wedded life, 
 
 For all the gladsome moments of the past. 
 
 True, fancj sometimes may, to cheat the heart, 
 
 Depict on golden web the semblance bright 
 
 Of vanish'd joys ; and fond remembrance cling 
 
 To the idea soft : but now he feels 
 
 " The sober certainty of waking bliss," 
 
 The happier youth looks back without regret, 
 
 And forward with a smile. Twin'd with the bands 
 
 Of virtuous love, the present he enjoys, 
 
 Nor dreams of distant ills, if haply she. 
 
 The charmer of his soul, be near. Behold ! 
 
 Ye who in pleasure's flowery paths have stray'd 
 
 Erratic, seeking joy, but finding none. 
 
 Behold the wedded Pair ! How graceful do 
 
 Th^y skim the verdant plain like two young fawns 
 
 Exuberant with life, thoughtless of harm, 
 
 And happy in themselves. O, who would wound 
 
 Their guileless hearts, or envious mar the peace 
 
 Of innocence like theirs ! Anon they pause. 
 
 And up to heaven, as witness of their bhss. 
 
 They look ! and then, reflected here below, 
 
 In their own visages reflected, see 
 
 Its brightness and its calm. They look around ! 
 
4d 
 
 And earth, in all its loveliness array'd, 
 Seems form'd for them alone. They look to God! 
 And, with approving smiles, the God of heaven 
 And earth unites their hearts, and gracious breathes 
 Unsullied peace within. Ah, happy they, 
 (If ought of happiness is found on earth,) 
 Who nor in thought nor action stand accus'd — 
 Who thus in pleasures pure consume the day, 
 In mutual love, their lives ! So in the midst 
 Of Eden's blooming bowers, together stood, 
 Together graceful rov'd, the matchless Pair ! 
 Crown'd with immortal youth — pure, innocent, 
 And beautiful as heaven ! they rather seem'd 
 Like beings just alighted from the skies. 
 Than denizens of earth. Joy sparkled in 
 Their eyes, and in their hearts love reign'd supreme. 
 Ye paragons of earth ! why were ye lost ? 
 How from your bowers of bliss was bliss exil'd ? 
 7 
 
FLORELLO. 
 
 « That Angel Boy .'" 
 
 O, CHILDHOOD ! age of bliss ! forever gone, 
 Yet still remember'd with impassion'd love, 
 How beautiful art thou ! How often have 
 I gazed upon the clear blue fields of heav'n, 
 And thought I should be happy there — as oft 
 Upon thy face, sweet childhood, have I gaz'd, 
 And thought of heav'n the while ! And who but feels 
 And must forever feel a sympathy 
 For thee, while innocence has power to win 
 The heart, or tenderness a refuge finds 
 Within the human breast. What thousand charms 
 L'ov'd age, are thine, till reason disenchants 
 The scene, and all thy fairy land, dissolv'd, 
 Evaporates like a wild fantastic dream ! 
 Such was the airy world in which thou liv'dst, 
 Florello ! and so evanescent too. 
 Thy little world and thee evanish'd both 
 At once, struck by a rude, unwelcome guest. 
 
51 
 
 Than Reason colder. Whom ! thy epitaph 
 Will tell. Here have I often sat me down — 
 Here, while the dews of heav'n fell thick upon 
 Thy grave, and thought of what thou wast, and what,^ 
 Perchance, thou would'st have been ! sad, pleasing 
 
 thoughts ! 
 But all beyond man's feeble ken is dark. 
 Had God prolong'd thy date, the same kind power 
 Might have endued thee with superior mind. 
 A Chatham's eloquence, perhaps, had fall'n 
 Persuasive from thy tongue, or Milton's muse 
 Been rivall'd in thine own ! or, mournful thought, 
 Like Beattie's sons, by genius crown'd, and deep 
 Imbued with classic lore, in bloom of youth 
 Thou might'st have sunk to rest. Ah ! who shall tell 
 What else thou might'st have been. But little boots 
 Such inquisition. What thou wast I know, 
 AnAfeeU Florello ! Oh ! how have I gazed 
 Upon that lovely face as it was deck'd 
 With smiles, and caught felicity from it : 
 And then anon, while watching thee, intent 
 To read thy mind, how would my fond heart ache ! 
 Why was it so ? Could such ingratitude ' 
 Perv9.de my breast ? It is for you — you who 
 
52 
 
 Possess Florellos, to reply. And once 
 Again, upon a time Despair had mark'd 
 Me for his prey, and unresisting seiz'd, 
 I rivetted my eyes upon that face : 
 'Twas beautiful ! But not a smile was seen 
 To play around those lips ; though seeming as 
 In act to speak, half op'd, their vermil tint 
 Had fled : I thought to catch a breathing word, 
 And bent me close to hear — but all was still ! 
 AU save the throbbings of my bleeding heart. 
 
DAPHNE. 
 
 " Elle etoit de ce monde ou les plus belles choses 
 Ont le pire destin ; 
 Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vive les roses, 
 L' espace d' un matin." m ih h 
 
 The winds are hush'd ; but the chill air of night 
 Pervades my shivering frame. The crisped leaves 
 Which late in verdant pride wav'd to the breeze 
 In undulations soft, and by the blast 
 But now where whirled from the neighboring wood. 
 Have cumber'd all my solitary paths. 
 Softly I tread the mazy labyrinth, lest 
 The rustling noise should interrupt the deep 
 And fearful stillness here. 'Tis thus amid 
 The forest wilds, when Autumn crowns, as now, 
 The plenteous year, and the gay antler'd herds 
 Look sleek, the unwearied hunter threads his way. 
 And, with a step cautious as Guilt, pursues 
 The timid chase. But what shall I alarm 
 In these deserted haunts, where none of choice 
 
54 
 
 Repair, save those whom wretchedness has taught 
 
 After long toil to seek for refuge here. 
 
 The mole has burrow'd deep, and heeds me not ; 
 
 The bat has ta'en his headlong flight in search 
 
 Of gentler skies, or nestles in some lone 
 
 And cover'd nook ; while at my feet sleep those 
 
 Whom not the crash of worlds shall wake again f 
 
 Ha ! is it so ? and wilt not thou awake 
 
 My dear, lamented Daphne ? Shall that form, 
 
 That form so heavenly fair, ne'er bloom again ? 
 
 Thy dust, alas ! is not commingled here 
 
 With kindred dust ; but doth it aught avail ? 
 
 Lo ! where repose the long forgotten race, 
 
 The lengthen'd line of thy progenitors : 
 
 Whilst thou, far amid southern climes, beneath 
 
 The tam'rind and the orange tree, art laid, 
 
 Fit resting place for thee ! No winter there 
 
 Shivers the glories of the circling year. 
 
 Nor tarnishes the lustre of the groves : 
 
 Thy fav'rite myrtle there can never die ; 
 
 There every gale wafts perfumes o'er thy grave ! 
 
 Ah why, such scenes among, should man alone 
 
 Then fade ? Nature with lavish hand adorns 
 
 The wild, and bids the flowers perpetual bloom ; 
 
55 
 
 But there to man a longer date denies, 
 Nay, warns him thence before his 'custom'd timfe. 
 And such, my Daphne, was thy cruel doom ! 
 And worse — For thou wast fated twice to die — 
 And twice in the full vernal bloom of youth — 
 The cup at parting bitterer than Death's ! 
 How wast thou torn, all lovely as thou wert. 
 And beauteous too as Maia's self when flush'd 
 By genial beams of the young sun, from arms 
 Unwilling to be loos'd from thine ! How flow'd 
 Thy tears, when the fond ties which bound thee here 
 Were sundered ! How did thy young heart throb 
 When to my own for the last time 'twas press'd ! 
 But years since that sad parting have flown by ; 
 And years have flown since thou wast rapt to heaven ! 
 Yet how can I forget, or thou forgive ? 
 True thou didst oft invite me to thy home, 
 Didst beckon me amid thy fragrant groves, 
 To feed me on thy golden fruits, and breathe 
 Thy incens'd air ; but, such my wayward mood, 
 I spurn'd the call (though sweeter not than thine 
 An angel's voice) or thought, as worldings do, 
 Another time to come. Thus wisdom's fool'd ; 
 And thus was I infatuated too. 
 
56 
 
 My Daphne ! art thou then forever fled ! 
 O, once again appear as thou wast wont ; 
 Even in my dreams I see thee smile ; and wakings 
 Oft pay thee with my late repentant tears. 
 Tears are thy due — ah ! doubly due from one 
 On whom thy infant eyes shed beams of love— * 
 Whom thou remember'dst to thy latest breath ( 
 
EUGENIO. 
 
 EuGENio ! say, canst thou remember whea 
 These arms encircled thy dear infant form ? 
 Canst thou recal the time when on my knees 
 Thou lov'dst to slumber ? where, press'd to my heart, 
 Thou wert secure from dangers and alarm ; 
 And where I've oft survey'd thy angel face, 
 And breath'd a prayer for thee ? Perchance thou 
 
 canst not. 
 But thou canst tell how many a frolic hour 
 Together we have pass'd in after days. 
 In that soft age, when reason first begins 
 To dawn, and the young heart beats quick, and joy 
 Sparkles and overflows, how often have 
 Thy little feet pursued me, while with coy 
 And quicken'd step I still contriv'd to elude 
 Thy tender grasp. O yes ; and thou mayest well 
 Remember too a thousand little arts 
 Of thine to cheat the rosy-footed Hours, 
 Who, smiling, would not even be detain'd 
 By thee. Nor wilt thou soon forget, my lov'd one, 
 How oft I've kiss'd away thy tears, when some 
 
58 
 
 Mischance had caus'd them from their little founts 
 To gush, and course adown thy blooming cheeks. 
 And then, what joys were those of riper time ! 
 In thy lov'd boyhood, when to my fond eye 
 Thou seem'dst §. young and feather'd Mercury, 
 How often have we scal'd the lofty hills, 
 To gaze upon the world below ! how oft 
 Together have we trac'd the sinuous stream, 
 And cull'd the flowers which deck'd its banks, or 
 
 troU'd, 
 With cautious hand, the slender line, to win 
 From their lov'd element the playful minnow, 
 Gay perch, or trout superb thick spangled o'er 
 With gold and purple. Oft hast thou thyself 
 Dwelt with delight upon thy ' hair breadth 'scapes,' 
 Thy prowess, and thy feats of wondrous skill, 
 Which mark'd in strong-drawn lines thy boyhood's 
 
 prime. 
 Ah ! why wilt thou not listen now — say why 
 Dost thou not smile to hear the tale which pleas'd 
 Thee once, nay, pleas'd a thousand, thousand times, 
 My dear Eugenio ! Even in later age. 
 Amid thy manlier sports, the sports of youth, 
 I've heard thee oft recur to the soft joys. 
 
59 
 
 That fiU'd thy nectar'd cup of life, nor left 
 Unsatisfied a wish. But thy young days, 
 Alas for me, for thee^ fond boy, are now 
 Forever fled ! and, Oh ! how shall I tell 
 The grievous truth — how with a bursting heart 
 Shall I a fatal secret dare divulge ? — 
 Thy lovelier youth, like the soft thistle's down, 
 Which the rude wind unpitying sweeps along, 
 Is fleeting too away ! No more I trace 
 Thy darling feet — no more that eye of thine^ 
 Reflecting soft yon heavenly azure field, 
 Bespeaks thy inward joy — no more thy cheek 
 (As Hebe's soft) vies with the opening rose, 
 But ever and anon a burnins; blush 
 Mournful reveals the foe that riots there ; 
 And as I mark the spoiler at his work. 
 With streaming tears I raise my eyes to Heaven, 
 And fervent pray his victim yet may 'scape. 
 Oh, youth belov'd ! oh, dearer to my soul 
 Than all man deems most precious in the world, 
 How shall I part from thee ! say where, ah, where, 
 When thou art gone, shall I e'er find a face 
 Glowing like thine with radiant truth ? where find 
 A heart so pure ? a mind so bright, so rich^ 
 
60 
 
 So early rich in wisdom's lore ? Alas t 
 Must thou be thus cut down — thus, like a flowV 
 Rude sever'd from its stalk, be strewn upon 
 The arid plain, and left to wither there ! 
 See, pitying Heaven — thy own fair work behold^ 
 Awhile 'mid scenes terrestrial let it bloom, 
 To glad the eye, and shew how within forms 
 Of clay a heavenly spirit is conceal'd. 
 But no, it cannot, must not be — thy fate. 
 Beloved youth, is seal'd ! Around thee mists 
 And clouds fast gather ; and Death's angel dark 
 Is hovering near to bear thee to his drear 
 Domain. And must thou go alone ? shall I 
 Be left to dew with tears thy mournful hearse — 
 To strew thy grave with flowers — and twine for thee 
 The wreath funereal, the sad cypress wreath ! 
 Ah ! rather let me go with thee — with thee 
 Seek the cold realms of death, and bury all 
 My sorrows there. But there thou wilt not stay! 
 Then take, oh take me with thee to a world 
 Where sorrow is not known ; where love and joy 
 Perpetual reign : and where a smiling band, 
 Lov'd, lost Eugenio, thy coming wait, 
 To crown thee with their amaranthine flowers. 
 
ALPHONSO. 
 
 " He must not sink^ 
 " Without the meed of some melodious tear.''^ 
 
 The howling wind, startling the dull cold ear 
 Of midnight, mournful vibrates in my own, 
 And with appalling fears unmans the soul. 
 O Death ! why, in an hour so rude, dost thou 
 Obtrude thy spectral form, and fill the mind 
 With dark imaginings ? Is't not enough 
 That we incontinent obey thy call, 
 And cower beneath thy frown, but thou must mock 
 Us still with shadows, hideous as thyself? 
 Alas, how wondrous is our fate ! Though heirs 
 Of life — immortal life ! we fade, and die, 
 And mingle with the dust. What horrour in 
 The thought ! ev'n with the hope, which secret lurks 
 Within the breast, that Heaven will ope its gates 
 To us, what doubts and fears the soul oppress ! 
 And, oh, how soon are we forgot ! forgot 
 Ere the bright furze can blossom o'er our graves ! 
 
62 
 
 And then, to leave this goodly scene — to be 
 Debarr'd the sight of the blest heavens — to feel 
 No more the balmy zephyr — and amid 
 The west to view the sinking sun, in floods 
 Of gold depart, never to rise again ! 
 Oh, my sad soul ! how wilt thou meet that hour ?— 
 But is this world so dear ? I fain would know — 
 And is it too so hard for us to die ? 
 Shade of my lov'd Alphonso ! speak, ah, speak ! 
 For earth had charms for thee, if it have charms 
 For any. Yes, blest as thou wast — at once 
 By virtue, fortune, friends ! It well had wean'd 
 Thee from the skies. Yet thou could'st willing leave 
 Them all — nay, dearer than all these — the lov'd 
 Companion of thy youth, and blooming boy, 
 Could'st leave to wrap thee in thy dusky shroud ! 
 Nor didst thou go with faltering step, and heart 
 Wild throbbing with alarms. Thy manly soul, 
 As erst on the rude ocean-wave, when earth 
 And skies tumultuous warr'd, could meet the king 
 Of terrors undismay'd, though worlds should quake 
 And crumble into dust ! Full long he stood 
 Waving his shadowy sceptre o'er thy couch, 
 As if in doubt to strike : but as thou smil'dst 
 
 \ 
 
63 
 
 {For in thy agonies a smile was seen f) 
 He aim'd malignant the unerring shaft ! 
 Swift as that shaft, thy lofty head to earth 
 Was bow'd. And now upon the breezy hill 
 Thou sleep'st ! 'Twas there, in happier times, we oft 
 Had stood, and view'd the sylvan world below. 
 With its bright stream that glisten'd thro' the leaves, 
 (All then thine own !)-'twas there, in mournful mood, 
 Oppress'd with dark forebodings of thy doom. 
 Thou didst confess thy pleasure to repose : — 
 " Here let me peaceful rest," said'st thou, " when 
 
 death 
 " Upon a day, haply not far, shall caU 
 " Me hence : but be it soon or late, my friend, 
 " Here let me rest ! no marble shall reveal 
 " My name, or lineage : the sun alone, 
 " As down he sinks beneath yon purple hills, 
 " Shall gild my humble grave !" Prophetic dream, 
 Alas ! thou too hast sunk, Alphonso ! Yet, 
 Anon, like the bright Regent of the day, 
 Shalt lift thy head, and sparkle in the skies. 
 
SPRING. 
 
 The Autumn, to the poet's soul, is full 
 Of inspiration. All that we behold 
 Above, around — all, to the mournful muse, 
 In language eloquent, foretels the fate 
 Of man ! But when admonish'd by the sight 
 Of nature in her state of decadence — 
 And when the roar of winds, which usher in 
 The maddening tempest, swells upon the ear — 
 The pensive mind with awe is struck, or starts 
 At thought of the extinction of man's hopes. 
 Not such the rosy Spring ! The infant year 
 Is full of hope, and love, and joy. The air, 
 Pure and attenuated, seems like breath 
 Of heaven, where angels might disport, and live. 
 The various sky, noAv a clear azure vault, 
 And now with silvery clouds adorn'd, that yield 
 Warm drops prelusive of the genial show'r, 
 Is beautiful. The sun himself looks bright 
 In youthful charms, and renovated strength. 
 
63> 
 
 Swift from the bosom of the orient wave 
 He rises, shaking his resplendent locks, 
 And mounts the lofty sky — then ardent there 
 Pursues the ethereal course — and then adown 
 The west precipitate he speeds, and wraps 
 Him in a golden cloud. But thou, O earth. 
 With what transcendent beauty art thou deck'd ! 
 The wide extended plain — the mountain side- 
 Each hill-top — every rocky height is clothed 
 With pristine verdure, which the eye drinks in 
 Insatiate ; while, aloft, of every hue. 
 Though verd'rous still, the tow'ring oak, the pine 
 Erect, the elm fantastic, maple bright 
 And flexile willow — with ten thousand else 
 AU spangled o'er (a wUderness of sweets !) 
 Wave to the kissing breeze, and seem to joy 
 In the embrace. Then Flora art thou seen 
 In all thy loveliness ! Thy crown a wreath 
 Of shadowing roses, and thy sceptre meek, 
 The lilly of the vale ; forth o'er the fields 
 Alighting from a fragrant cloud, thou goest. 
 All nature smiles at thy approach ; beneath 
 Thy feet, in every bosky dell, amid 
 
 The shade and in the eye of day, spring up 
 9 
 
6Q 
 
 XJnnumber'd flowers, reflecting in their tints 
 The hues of heaven ; while every zephyr near 
 Bears on his wings their perfumes. Then the world 
 Is full of music. Myriads throng the air, 
 Light as the air itself, eluding sight, 
 Yet to the conscious ear that eager lists 
 The buz of joy, not distant. Myriads too, 
 Warbling their wood-notes wild, within the groves 
 Rejoice, and to the tell-tale echo give 
 Their notes of love. While 'mid the vale, and o'er 
 The verdant downs, the low of gath'ring herds 
 And bleat of flocks innumerous, all conspire 
 To swell the song of joy, resounding wide 
 Through the whole earth, and up to heaven itself! 
 But thou, O man ! the lord of this new world, 
 How doth thy soul exult amid the scene ! 
 Not lovelier once when rising from the waves, 
 Flush'd with primeval beauty, seem'd the nymph 
 Of heavenly birth, to thy delighted eye. 
 Than now the new-born earth, nor less intense 
 The raptures which thou feel'st. For love still reigns, 
 Still kindles round thy heart his golden fires, 
 And lifts thy soul to heaven. Bright effluence 
 From the pure source of goodness infinite, 
 
67 
 
 O may it long pervade a happy world ! 
 Long in the breast of favour'd man awake 
 A guiltless transport — ^long attune his voice 
 To noblest strains of gratitude and praise i 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Lo ! here upon the sacred hill^ where sleeps 
 The great Musaus, hard of old renown'd, 
 Lo here amid the City's bounds I stand. 
 
 Note 1— Page 5. 
 The history, antiquities, and topography, of Athens, are 
 too familiar to every one, to require any particular notice 
 in this place. In order that the reader may have some 
 definite idea of the relative positions of the objects as they 
 are successively described in the poem, he must imagine 
 himself placed for a moment upon the summit of the Mu- 
 saeum hill, the station from which the Panorama of that 
 celebrated city was taken. Those who had the good for- 
 tune to see that splendid picture, will recollect that the ob- 
 jects in the foreground were chiefly of a rural and pasto- 
 ral description. The declivities of the Musasum hill (once 
 included within the walls of Athens) were there represent- 
 ed, as they often are in fact, covered with flocks : in the 
 midst of which shepherds were seen here and there reclin- 
 ing upon the turf, or groups of Greek females were observ- 
 ed to be engaged in dancing the Romaika, a favourite diver- 
 sion, which is supposed to bear a near resemblance to a 
 dance of the Ancient Greeks. The spectator, finding him- 
 self surrounded by these pleasing objects, is for a moment 
 inclined to doubt whether he is not imposed upon ; for he 
 beholds no magnificent city like that which he had, perhaps, 
 erected in his imagination, and which he had come to view. 
 But he soon perceives the lofty rock of the Acropolis, with 
 its ramparts and ruins j and towering above all these, he 
 
70 
 
 beholds the magnificent vestiges of the Parthenon. He now 
 no longer doubts ; Athens, not as it was, but as it now is, 
 appears before him. After gazing with a sort of feverish 
 delight upon these striking monuments, his attention is next 
 directed to the natural beauties of the place, and of the sur- 
 rounding country. But as soon as the observer has taken 
 a glance of the distant scenery, his eye is again attracted 
 towards the favourite objects in the picture — the citadel 
 and plain of Athens, and the architectural remains of an- 
 cient grandeur thinly dispersed over them. On these the 
 eye reposes with a melancholy pleasure ; and while the 
 mind is led back to the contemplation of the ages of glory, 
 a glow of indignation is felt at the miserable degradation of 
 that seat of learning and of art. Such was the Panorama ; 
 such now is Athens ; and such the emotions which the view 
 of each would excite in the spectator. It will readily be 
 perceived that my little performance is a mere Panoramic 
 sketch — not a finished picture ; which, indeed, I should in 
 vain have attempted. Still less can 1 flatter myself that I 
 have been able to identify my own feelings with those of 
 the fortunate man who has actually traced the banks of the 
 Ilissus, and its sister stream, or who has knelt within the sa- 
 cred precincts of the Parthenon. 
 
 As the admirable picture which I have so faintly copied, 
 seems to have passed into oblivion, I think it will not be 
 uninteresting to a portion of the community to know how 
 faithful a transcript it was considered to be of the actual 
 scenery of Athens — how much enthusiasm it was expected 
 to awaken — and to whose munificence we were indebted for 
 the inestimable treasure. I therefore transcribe from an 
 old number of the Boston Daily Advertiser, the following 
 brief history of the 
 
 Panorama of Athens. 
 
 " It is with the greatest satisfaction that we have been 
 
71 
 
 informed that this celebrated work of art is likely soon to 
 reach our country. After having been the object of uni- 
 versal admiration in England, for the last year, it was 
 lately purchased in London by Theodore Lyman, jun. Esq. 
 and is expected by the first convenient opportunity. Be- 
 sides the reputation which it enjoyed in London of being 
 the best executed of the famous panoramas of Barker, its 
 value as a perfect representation of the city and plain of 
 Athens was attested by the numerous English travellers in 
 Greece, who are well known to have pronounced in the 
 most favourable manner upon it. It was painted by Messrs. 
 Barker and Burford, of London, after drawings taken from 
 the most elevated part of the Museum Hill by Signor Po- 
 mardi, a Roman artist, whom Mr. Dodweil employed on 
 his travels in Greece. The same drawings are now issu- 
 ing, with Mr. Dodwell's Travels, from the London press. 
 The point of view chosen was selected by Mr. Dodweil as 
 being that from which all the interesting and celebrated 
 objects in the vicinity of Athens may be seen. Besides 
 Mr. Dodwell's drawings, the Panorama was enriched by 
 communications from Mr. Cockerel!, another celebrated 
 English traveller in Greece, who also furnished the draw- 
 ings from life for the human figures introduced into the 
 painting. Among the various public and private testimo- 
 nies to its merit and beauty, it was enthusiastically pro- 
 nounced by our countryman Mr. West (the President of 
 the Royal Academy) to be the finest representation which 
 the pencil of man has produced. So valuable was it 
 thought for its connexion with classical antiquity, that the 
 Universities of Cambridge and Oxford in England both 
 made efforts to acquire it. It is therefore with the high- 
 est satisfaction that we are enabled to inform the public, 
 that it has been purchased by Mr. Lyman, and that it is 
 intended by him as a present to the University of Cam- 
 
72 
 
 bridge. We congratulate the public on this new and dis- 
 tinguished example of liberality to our University ; and 
 rejoice that so excellent an appropriation is to be made of 
 this celebrated and classical performance. It would cer- 
 tainly be impossible to select any other place so suitable 
 as a distinguished literary institution, to receive this faith- 
 ful transcript of the ruins and present state of the city 
 which the world of letters must ever regard as its metro- 
 polis : and we are sure that we do but anticipate the public 
 feeling, in announcing this act of liberality with the warm- 
 est terms of applause." 
 
 Yet thine, Euripides! 
 Thine ■was the dearest boast. 
 
 Note 2— Page 11. 
 
 " Amidst this dark and dreadful scene of cruelty and re- 
 venge, we must not omit to mention one singular example 
 of humanity, which broke forth like a meteor in the gloom 
 of a nocturnal tempest. The Syracusans, who could punish 
 their helpless captives with such unrelenting severity, had 
 often melted into tears at the affecting strains of Euripides; 
 an Athenian poet, who had learned in the Socratic school 
 to adorn the lessons of philosophy with ihe charms of fancy, 
 and who was regarded by the taste of his contemporaries, 
 as he still is by many enlightened judges, as the most tender 
 and pathetic, the most philosophical and instructive, of all 
 tragic writers. The pleasure which the Syracusans had 
 derived from his inimitable poetry, made them long to hear 
 it rUhearsed by the flexible voices and harmonious pronun- 
 ciation of the Athenians, so unlike, and so superior, to the 
 rudeness and asperity of their own Doric dialect. They 
 desired their captives to repeat the plaintive scene? of their 
 favourite bard. The captives obeyed ; and^ affecting to re- 
 
73 
 
 present the woes of ancient kings and heroes, they too 
 faithfully expressed their own. Their taste and sensibility 
 endeared them to the Syracusans, who released their bonds, 
 received them with kindness into their families, and, after 
 treating them with all the honourable distinctions of ancient 
 hospitality, restored them to their longing and afflicted coun- 
 try, as a small but precious wreck of the most formidable 
 armament that had ever sailed from a Grecian harbour. At 
 their return to Athens, the grateful captives walked in so- 
 lemn procession to the house of Euripides, whom they hail- 
 ed as their deliverer from slavery and death. This ac- 
 knowledgment, infinitely more honourable than all the 
 crowns and splendour that ever surrounded the person, and 
 even than all the altars and temples that ever adorned the 
 memory, of a poet, must have transported Euripides with 
 the second triumph which the heart of man can feel. He 
 would have enjoyed the first, if his countrymen had owed 
 to his virtues the tribute which they paid to his talents ; 
 and if, instead of the beauty and elegance of his verses, 
 they had been saved by his probity, his courage, or his pa- 
 triotism ; qualities which, still more than genius and fancy, 
 constitute the real excellence and dignity of human nature." 
 
 Gillies^ Hist, of Greece. 
 
 Solon ! once by Lydia's throneless king, 
 Cowering beneath the Persian despoCs frown., 
 Pronounc''d wisest of men ! — 
 
 Note 3— Page 12. 
 
 *' An immense pile of wood and other combustibles were 
 erected in the most spacious part of the city. The mise- 
 rable victims, bound hand and foot, were placed on the top 
 of the pyre. Cyrus, surrounded by his generals, witnessed 
 the dreadful spectacle, either from an abominable principle 
 10 
 
74 
 
 of superstition, if he had bound himself by a vow to sacri- 
 fice Croesus as the first fruits of the Lydian victory, or from 
 a motive of curiosity, equally cruel and impious, to try 
 whether Croesus, who had so mag'nificentiy adorned the 
 temples, and enriched the ministers, of the gods, would be 
 helped in time of need by the miraculous interposition of 
 his much-honoured protectors. 
 
 " Meanwhile the unfortunate Lydian, oppressed and con- 
 founded by the intolerable weight of his present calamity, 
 compared with the security and splendour of his former 
 state, recollected his memorable conversation with the 
 Athenian sage, and uttered with a deep groan the name of 
 Solon. Cyrus asked, by an interpreter, " whose name he 
 invoked." " ifi«," replied Crossus, emboldened by the 
 prospect of certain death, " whose words ought ever to 
 speak to the heart of kings." This reply not being satis- 
 factory, he was commanded to explain at full length the 
 subject of his thoughts. The words of a dying man are 
 fitted to make an impression on the heart. Those of Croe- 
 sus deeply affected the mind of Cyrus. The Persian con- 
 sidered the speech of Solon as addressed to himself. He 
 repented of his intended cruelty towards an unfortunate 
 prince, who had formerly enjoyed all the pomp of prospe- 
 rity, and, dreading the concealed vengeance that might 
 lurk in vhe bosom of Fate, gave orders that the pyre 
 should be extinguished." — Ibid. 
 
 Thou 
 Wast fain to shed ' some natural tears'' at sight 
 So grievous. — 
 
 Note 4— Page 15. 
 " When the king beheld all the Hellespont crowded 
 with ships, and all the shore, with the plains of Abydos, 
 
75 
 
 covered with his troops, he at first congratulated himself 
 as happy, but he afterwards burst into tears." 
 
 Beloe's Herodotus. 
 What subject for reflection is there not in the above 
 simple and unadorned fact ! But it has received various 
 glosses. Thus Glover — 
 
 " As down 
 Th' immeasurable ranks his sight was lost, 
 A momentary gloom o'ercast his mind ; 
 While this reflection fill'd his eyes with tears — 
 That, soon as time a hundred years had told, 
 Not one among those millions should survive. 
 Whence, to obscure thy pride, arose that cloud ? 
 Was it that once humanity could touch 
 A tyrant's heart ? Or rather did thy soul 
 Repine, O Xerxes, at the bitter thought 
 That all thy pow'r was mortal ?" 
 
 Leonidas : Book iv. 
 
 There Paros, dear to art^ his lofty brow 
 
 Shadowy amid the emerald sea erects ; 
 
 Revealing to the curious eye alone 
 
 His dazzling caves, &lc. 
 
 Note 5— Page 17. 
 " Faros was a rich and powerful island, and well known 
 in ancient times for its famous marble, which was always 
 used by the best statuaries. The best quarries were those 
 of Marpesus, a mountain where still caverns of the most 
 extraordinary depth are seen by modern travellers, and 
 admired as the sources from whence the Labyrinth of 
 Egypt and the porticoes of Greece received their splen- 
 dour. According to Pliny, the quarries were so uncom- 
 monly deep, that in the clearest weather the vyorkmen 
 
76 
 
 were obliged to use lamps, from which circumstance the 
 Greeks have called the marble Lychnites, worked by the 
 light of lamps. 
 
 " The Parian marbles, perhaps better known by the 
 appellation o( Arundelian, were engraved in this island in 
 capital letters, B. C. 264, and, as a valuable chronicle, 
 preserved the most celebrated epochas of Greece from the 
 year 1582 B. C. These marbles now belong to the Uni- 
 versity of Oxford, to which they were presented by the 
 Earl of Arundel." Lempriere. 
 
 And thou the marvel of each wondering age, 
 At once the shame and glory of the world, 
 Majestic Parthenon ! 
 
 Note 6— Page 20. 
 
 The temple of Minerva, commonly called the Parthenon, 
 was erected during the administration of Pericles, about 
 four hundred and thirty five years before the Christian era. 
 It was nearly entire in the year 1687, when the Venetians, 
 under Morosini, having besieged the citadel, this with 
 many other noble monuments of the ancients suffered irre- 
 parable injury. A part of the temple of Minerva had been 
 converted into a powder room; and a red hot ball having 
 penetrated the roof, a destructive explosion was the conse- 
 quence. This may be termed the fatal era of the Parthe- 
 non ; for the Venetians were only the precursors of other 
 depredators and destroyers, among whom was a British no- 
 bleman, who, with an ostensible love for the arts, has done 
 much towards the demolition of an edifice which had been 
 the admiration of all preceding times, and which, even in 
 ruins, is one of the proudest monuments of human genius. 
 
 If the Greeks, in spite ofthe frowns of power, and the apa- 
 thy of mankind, should be able to achieve their indepen- 
 
77 
 
 dence, one of the early acts of their government should he 
 to decree the restoration of the Parthenon. I do not mean 
 that thej should begin to labour upon it in that state of ex- 
 haustion in which they must be left after their sanguinary, 
 but glorious struggle ; yet I should hope that the project 
 would be steadily kept in view. It is to be presumed, that 
 in this event, the British Parliament would send back the 
 sculptures of Phidias, and that the king of France would 
 follow the laudable example. Every block should be re- 
 placed. The inscription (as translated) may then read 
 thus : — 
 
 ERECTED BY PERICLES. 
 
 DEFACED AND VIOLATED BY THE BARBARIANS. 
 
 RESTORED 
 
 BY THE PEOPLE OF GREECE. 
 
 That precious fane, the Goths of every age, 
 
 The Christian and the Infidel, had spar''d ; 
 
 For thee alone to mar the beavieous work, 
 
 It was reserv''d. 
 
 Note 7 — Page 21 . 
 The beautiful little edifice called Pandrosus, with the 
 temples of Miner\a Polias and Erechtheus (all three con- 
 stituting one building, though forming in fact as many 
 different temples) and the majestic pillars of the Parthe- 
 non, comprehend the principal remains of ancient gran- 
 deur upon the Acropolis. The roof of the portico of the 
 temple of Pandrosus was supported by six colossal cary- 
 atides, one of which Lord Elgin removed. The Greek 
 inhabitants of Athens, with that acute sensibility for which 
 they have always been remarkable, now imagine that they 
 hear at certain times mournful sounds proceeding from the 
 
78 
 
 remaining figures, as if they were lamenting the absence of 
 that which was so wantonly torn away. The removal of 
 the figure is much to be regretted, because it will precipi- 
 tate the destruction of the building ; and because, though 
 beautiful in its place, it is not, as a work of art, particu- 
 larly estimable. 
 
 1 am not surprised that lord Byron was unable to sup- 
 press his indignation at the conduct of the Earl of Elgin 
 and his agents. The Earl was welcome to the Ilissus, to the 
 JVeptune, and to a thousand other precious fragments ; but 
 no one can think of the destruction of the frieze of the 
 Parthenon, without execrating the hands which were em- 
 ployed in its demolition. 
 
 Thou phrensied Gaul ! 
 
 Note 8— Page 22. 
 
 A Frenchman, some years ago, conceived the thought of 
 transporting the temple of Theseus to France ; what infatua- 
 tion ! Yet an idea of this kind was not new. We are told 
 that an Earl of Bristol, in the last century, seriously medi- 
 tated the removal of the beautiful little temple of the Sybil 
 at Tivoli. in order that he might place it in his own park ! 
 He was only restrained from committing the outrage by an 
 absolute prohibition of his Holiness. 
 
 O what a dream of horrours has been mine ! 
 
 Note 9— Page 27. 
 The following affecting appeal from the Greeks at Con- 
 stantinople to their brethren in London, was first published 
 in a British newspaper ; it presents a succinct account of 
 the devastation of the Island of Scio, and will, by every one, 
 be read with the most intense interest. The destruction 
 
79 
 
 of Scio is one of the most disastrous events of modern times^ 
 and is scarcely equalled in atrocity in any age of the world. 
 That lovely island has always heen represented to us as the 
 garden of the East — a sort of Paradise : What a frightful 
 reverse ! 
 
 Constantinople, May 22, 1822. 
 " Dear and beloved Brethren and Countrymen ! — We doubt 
 not, that the news contained herein must have already reach- 
 ed you, and fallen like a thunderbolt on your hearts. What 
 more dreadful than the knowledge that our illustrious and 
 innocent countrymen — ten of them in prison here, and 
 those in the Castle of Scio, ninety-five in all— universUy 
 esteemed and respected, chosen and held as hostages for 
 more than a year past, have at last, without a single motive, 
 without even the shadow of a personal accusation against 
 them, been barbarously executed ? We at first deeply la- 
 mented the unmerited restraint put upon the persons of 
 those now no more ; their death, ignominious and cruel, in 
 the first burst of grief nearly paralyzed our faculties. Who 
 can, without shuddering, read of the total ruin, the universal 
 desolation, of our famed and once happy isle (Scio) ; the de- 
 struction of all its inhabitants, nearly one hundred thousand, 
 who, except a very few who almost miraculously escaped 
 from those ill-fated shores, have fallen victims to the sword, 
 to fire, hunger, and slavery — that worst of all evils ? Who 
 can, without feelings of indignation, without execrating the 
 perpetrators of these horrid acts, behold a whole city lately 
 so flourishing, now one heap of ruins ; whole villages, in- 
 numerable country seats, a prey to the flames ; our cele- 
 brated school, library, hospital for the sick, hundreds of 
 churches richly adorned — all, all one confused mass ofsmok- 
 ing rubbish ! Our island, lately so much frequented by 
 Europeans, and more especially by English families of the 
 first rank, will now have only her ashes to show the pass- 
 
80 
 
 ing stranger. Nor is this, so dreadful in itself, the most dire 
 of our calamites. The slavery of so many respectable wo- 
 men, young people, and children of both sexes, sent off to 
 different parts of Asia — the markets of this city and Smyrna, 
 filled with women and young people of the first rank; and 
 who have received the best education ! What can be more 
 dreadful than this? Happy, thrice happy those, whom the 
 steel of the assassin has snatched from scenes so harrowing 
 to the feelings; how miserable those still suffered to exist, 
 who see the sufferings, hear the cries and piteous accents 
 of their wives, children, and relatives, and are witnesses to 
 the barbarous treatment this devoted and innocent people 
 receive, from the wretches who have them in their power ! 
 What can be laid to our charge ? We poor Sciots, who 
 from the beginning have remained faithful, are rewarded 
 with death and slavery. It is well known, as soon as the 
 Porte heard of the insurrection in the Morea, and sundry 
 islands of the Archipelago, it sent here a Pacha, having 
 with him about three thousand troops ; the whole of the 
 expenses of this garrison was defrayed by our island, which, 
 in the course of about fourteen months, paid more than two 
 million seven hundred thousand piasters, each according to 
 his means. Besides that, the Suitan ordered a choice to be 
 made of sixty of the most considerable and respectable from 
 our countrymen, beginning by our Archbishop Plato, the 
 elder, and other principal inhabitants. When the news of 
 the invasion of the imprudent Samiotes first spread in Scio, 
 the principal inhabitants waited on the Pacha to apprize 
 him of it. What was his answer ? To send into the Castle, 
 as hostages, some more of these innocent men, and to trans- 
 port all the provisions out ofthe city into the citadel, leav- 
 ing none whatever for the poor inhabitants of the city, who 
 -were so numerous. A month after, when the Samiotes land- 
 ed, the Pacha sent some ofthe hostages, with several Turks, 
 
81 
 
 to prevail on the Samiotes to evacuate the island — but they 
 imprudently resolved to advance, and told these ministers 
 of peace, that they would sooner put them to death than do 
 so. The Pacha then shut himself up in the Castle with all 
 the military, taking with him all the hostages. It was un- 
 derstood, that a number of the peasantry had joined the Sa- 
 miotes ; they were in a manner forced to it, being appre- 
 hensive of the Samiotes themselves, and they were only 
 armed with sticks and staves. Eleven days after, the Turk- 
 ish fleet arrived at the island, and landed fifteen thousand 
 soldiers, who, joined by the three thousand in the Castle, 
 being unable to attack and defeat the three thousand Sa- 
 miotes, used their weapons against the innocent and disarm- 
 ed inhabitants, and turned their fury against women and 
 children, killing, burning, and taking into slavery, all the in- 
 habitants of the place; the men they slaughtered, the wo- 
 men and children they brutally treated, and huddled together 
 in one of the large squares, which contained several hun- 
 dred of the most respectable families ; they have not left a 
 stone upon a stone — all destroyed, all ruined ! It would fill 
 volumes to record the different scenes of horror which the 
 ruffians were guilty of — humanity shudders at it. But this 
 universal desolation had not yet satisfied the blood-thirsty 
 followers of Mahommed; they had heaped upon their 
 trembling and tender victims all the bitterness of their fa- 
 naticism : it remained for them to wreak their vengeance up- 
 on their illustrious hostages — men who had always followed 
 the paths of rectitude in their commercial transactions — 
 whose relations were established in almost every com- 
 mercial city in the known world — men, innocent of any 
 machination against the Turkish government, and who 
 could not, even if they would, have been participators in the 
 rising of the island, since they had been fourteen months 
 under the grasp of the Turkish satrap. Ten of these were 
 11 
 
82 
 
 at Constantinople, the remainder at Scio. Lord Strangford 
 made strenuous efforts to save them — neglected no remon- 
 strances — evinced the greatest ardor in the cause of suffer- 
 ing innocence, and thought he had succeeded in sheltering 
 them from their impending fate, having obtained a promise 
 from the Porte that no harm should be done them, when it 
 suddenly gave orders for their execution. The ten in 
 Constantinople were beheaded, and the eighty-five in Scio 
 were hung outside of the Castle, in that very square where 
 so many of the slaves were placed, in sight of the Turkish 
 fleet, who had their decks covered with Greek slaves. 
 Oh ! how the heart sickens at such refinement of cruelty, 
 and turns with horror from the malice that could take de- 
 light in deriding the mental agony of the innocent sufferers 
 in this tragic scene ! What a number of wives were forced 
 to be spectators of the cruel death of the husbands of their 
 affections, to see at the same time their suckling babes, torn 
 from their breasts, thus bereft at once of their support and 
 hopes ! Many, driven to despair by this barbarous usage, 
 threw themselves into the sea, others stabbed themselves 
 to prevent the loss of honour, to them worse than death, to 
 which they were every moment exposed from the barba- 
 rians. But, alas ! let us draw a veil over those who have 
 thus sunk untimely into the grave — let us not harrow up 
 your souls with the recital of such atrocities — their suffer- 
 ings are over, and their felicity, let us hope, begun. 
 
 It is now time to turn your sympathy towards the unfor- 
 tunate survivors of the general wreck — to call, dear coun- 
 trymen, your attention to the miserable, naked state of 
 thousands of our Sciofs, with which the markets here, at 
 Smyrna, and Scio, are glutted. Picture to yourselves chil- 
 dren of the tenderest age, till now nursed with the most 
 delicate attention, driven about with only a piece of cloth 
 round their infant limbs, without shoes or any other cover- 
 
83 
 
 ing, having nothing to live upon but a piece of bread throwa 
 to them by their inhuman keepers — ill treated by them — 
 sold from one to the other, and all, in this deplorable sit- 
 uation, exposed to be brought up in the Mahometan religion, 
 and lose sight of the precepts of our holy faith. We see 
 all this ; yet, alas ! what can we do here, reduced to three 
 or four, who, if found out, would also be exterminated with- 
 out mercy ? What we could do, we have done ; but how 
 little among so many claimants to our charity ! You, brothers, 
 friends, and countrymen, are in the capital of England, the 
 centre of philanthropy ; you live amongst a people always 
 famed for their generous feelings towards the unfortunate, 
 for their dislike to tyranny, and their support of the op- 
 pressed. Beg, pray, entreat, appeal to their feelings, call 
 upon them as Britons, as men, as fellow beings : it is in the 
 cause of humanity, of religion ; they cannot, they will not, 
 be deaf to your prayers. They will afford us, as far as lies 
 in their power, the means of redeeming the captive, of aid- 
 ing those families that are in a state of nudity and starvation, 
 who will soon arrive in almost every port of the Mediter- 
 ranean, when they have been enabled to fly from a yoke 
 worse than death. We rely upon your endeavours, and still 
 more upon the high character of the nation among whom 
 you inhabit : thousands of hands are raised towards you to 
 claim your interference in behalf of j'our oppressed country- 
 men: thousands of hearts will feel grateful for your assis- 
 tance. Brethren and countrymen, exert yourselves in be- 
 half of humanity. 
 
 "With tearful eye we cordially salute you, and beg you 
 will pray to God for our safety. 
 
 " YoDR Brothers and Countrymen." 
 
 In alluding to the catastrophe of Scio, the Hon. Mr. Web- 
 ster, in his late eloquent speech on the Greek question^ 
 
84 
 
 speaks of it as " an indescribable enormity" — an appalling 
 monument of barbarian cruelty" — " a scene," said he, " I 
 shall not attempt to describe — a scene from which human 
 nature shrinks shuddering away — a scene having hardly a 
 parallel in the history of fallen man !" 
 
 I cannot but indulge a hope that the speech of that great 
 advocate will be immediately translated and forwarded to 
 <jreece. It will be a consolation to that unhappy people 
 to know that there are some magnanimous spirits among 
 «s, who have the boldness to vindicate their cause, and ex- 
 press a sympathy for their sufferings. The close of the 
 speech is emphatic: — 
 
 " I think it right too. Sir, not to be unseasonable in the ex- 
 pression of our regard, and, as far as that goes, in a minis- 
 tration of our consolation, to a long oppressed and now 
 struggling people. I am not of those who would in the 
 hour of utmost peril withhold such encouragement as might 
 be properly and lawfully given, and when the crisis should 
 be past, overwhelm the rescued sufferer with kindness and 
 caresses. The Greeks address the civilized world with a 
 pathos not easy to be resisted. They invoke our favour by 
 more moving considerations than can well belong to the 
 condition of any other people. They stretch out their arms 
 to the Christian communities of the earth, beseeching them, 
 by a generous recollection of their ancestors, by the consi- 
 deratio i of their own desolated and ruined cities and villa- 
 ges, by their wives and children, sold into an accursed sla- 
 very, by their own blood, which they seem willing to pour 
 out like water, by the common faith, and in the Name, 
 which unites all Christians, that they would extend to them, 
 at least, some token of compassionate regard." 
 

 
 
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