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If aught of sterling wit, or natural worth,

The heights of thought, or depths of various lore That to the mind's own fountain gushing forth

Added all wealth as from an ocean store,
If these be honour, be that honour thine,
O human wonder, Intellect divine,

That spake of all things wisely,-taught aright
By nature's voice, and reason's inner sun,—
Still can we love thy not all human light,
And hail thy wisdom, heathen Solomon:
Another praise be thine, O Stagyrite,

For that the world's great winner, in thy school His all of power, with all of knowledge, won, Learning from thee to conquer and to rule.

Pharian.

Truly ennobled in that name The Good,
Thy spirit sought a thankless country's weal
Through fourscore years with all a martyr's zeal,
And then, the fickle envious multitude,

That democratic city's viper brood,

Rewarded thee with hate and clamorous strife,
Poison'd thy fame with calumny's foul breath,
And for the wages of a patriot's life
Paid, as their wont, a malefactor's death:
Athens, base Athens, what a deed abhorr'd
Of guileless blood lies heavily on thee;

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Hear to thy shame a Phocion's dying word, 'My son, forget that thou hast seen or heard The bitter wrongs poor Athens heap'd on me."

rare creative mind, and plastic hand,
Whose skill enshrined in one gigantic form,
Chryselephantine, rear'd in air enorme,
The viewless guardian of thy father-land

Olympian Jove, pardon to thee for this,
That of the GOD whose chariot is the storm
Thy soul by Him untaught should deem amiss,
Pardon to thee, and praise; thy labour proves
The heart's sincerity, though little light
Scatter'd the darkness of thy moral night:
Behold, it quickens! the colossus moves!
Who, who would not fall down?-Start not, ye proud,
Perchance your
idols are as false as Jove's,

And ye more guilty than that pagan crowd.

Epicurus.

They have malign'd thy memory, grave good man,
They have abused the truth thy pureness taught,
Beautiful truth with rare religion fraught,
That to cull pleasure whensoe'er he can

Is a man's wisdom,-so he keep in thought
That pleasure lies in acting as he ought:
For, selfish vice, the fool's besotted plan

Of mis-call'd happiness, how false it is,-
What misery lurks beneath the painted cheek,

How much of sorrow in the wanton's kiss!
O would that, where thou walkest now in bliss
Some garden of the stars, thy wrath could speak
To these degenerate sons, who blot thy fame,
Glad in their woe, and glorying in their shame!

A conqueror that weeps for victory won!—
O glorious soul, that mid the patriot fight
Raged as an Ajax in his ruthless might,
Then turn'd to mourn the havoc he had done!
So wept Marcellus, Rome's heroic son,

(When haughty Syracuse had fall'n, despite
Her strength in Archimedes,)—and with care
Strove-not to butcher foeman, but-to spare:
Stop we not here; for ev'n a brighter act
Claims deeper homage: when avail'd not all
Thy pious care, but those fierce legions sack'd
The helpless city in its last dread fall,

When thy worst foe, thy subtlest, met his doom, Thy nobler praise was Archimedes' tomb.

Bipparchus.

In spirit as I roam with thee by night,
Threading the galaxy on fancy's wing,
Oft, as I reach a star more sweetly bright,
My hope will rise and in a rapture sing,
Fair planet, can I ever be thy king,
A sainted monarch in thy halls of light?

For there are many mansions, mighty thrones, Glories, and sceptres, praise and golden zones, Reward, and homage, crowns, and shining robes: Ambition's boldest dream, and wildest flight

Hath yet to be borne out: ecstatic soul Shall soar triumphant to those burning globes That round essential GOD sublimely roll, The life, the sun, the centre of the whole!

jewels beyond price, uncounted gold, Children, best wardens of a father's fame, Ye joys wealth never bought, want never sold, In you the rare unmammon'd hearts behold

The highest earthly good of mortal aim: Yon toothless darling at the mother's breast,That ruddy three-year-old who joyous runs Jealous of love, in haste to be carest,

Those gentle daughters, and these manly sons,Are they not riches ?-O thou worldly wise, Go to some home of earth's despised ones To learn where treasure-not thy gold-god-lies! Yea, Roman mother, glory in your gems; Such are the stars in heavenly diadems.

Virgil.

As, for ourselves,-O birds, no nest ye build,
No fleecy coats, O nibbling flocks, ye wear,
With sweets for you, O bees, no hive is fill'd,
O steers, no self-enriching yoke ye bear;
Thus for thyself, great prince of pastoral song,

Toil'd not thy modest muse, but for all time,
Yea, to the world thy polish'd strains belong:
Was it then virtue in thee, or half crime,
A false humility, sublimely wrong,

To try to cheat thine Epic of its fame,
For that to thee perfection seem'd ill done,
Hurling thy laurels to the jealous flame?
O Mantua, thou wert rich in such a son,
Yea, had thy Virgil been thine only one.

Lyrist of every age, of every clime,

Whose eye prophetic saw thy strong-built fame Stand a perennial monument sublime,—

Not all of thee shall perish: in thy name

Live memories embalm'd of richest thought,
Far flashing wit, and satire's wholesome smart,
Fine speech with feeling delicately fraught,
And patriot songs that with their generous glow
Warm to the love of home the wanderer's heart :
How varied is the chaplet on thy brow,
How wreath'd of many praises; the bright bay,

With laughing rose, and ebrious ivy twined,
And myrtles of staid hue, and wild flowers gay,
Shadow the changeful phases of thy mind.

Mary the Virgin.

Hail, Mary! blessed among women, hail!
How should I pass thee by, most favour'd one,
As thus I greet thee in this vision'd vale
Far other than on earth, when sad and pale
Beneath the bitter cross of that dear Son
Thy woman's heart did faint; I note thee now
Walking in praise, and on thy modest brow
The coronet that tells of glory won:
O blest art thou, but not yet full thy bliss,

Albeit where erst the sword pierced through thy heart
Celestial joys in thrilling raptures dart;

For He, the tender firstling of thy love, The precious child thy virgin lips did kiss, Hath still to take his triumph from above.

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