« ElőzőTovább »
In vain, - in vain ; strike other chords ;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio's vine !
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece !
Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phæbus sprung!
The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Their place of birth alone is mute
And Marathon looks on the sea ;
I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave.
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one ? You have the letters Cadmus gave, Think ye he meant them for a slave ?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine !
We will not think of themes like these ! It made Anacreon's song divine ;
He served, but served Polycrates, A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.
A king sat on the rocky brow
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ;
The tyrant of the Chersonese
Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades !
O that the present hour would lend
And with the idle gallows-rope
The young child played.
Where the doomed victim in his cell
Had counted o'er the weary hours, Glad school-girls, answering to the bell,
Came crowned with flowers.
Grown wiser for the lesson given,
I fear no longer, for I know That where the share is deepest driven
The best fruits grow.
The outworn rite, the old abuse,
The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use
Of wrong alone,
These wait their doom, from that great law
Which makes the past time serve to-day; And fresher life the world shall draw
From their decay.
O backward-looking son of time !
The new is old, the old is new, The cycle of a change sublime
Still sweeping through.
So wisely taught the Indian seer;
Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, Who wake by turn Earth's love and fear,
Are one, the same.
Idly as thou, in that old day
Thou mournest, did thy sire repine ; So, in his time, thy child grown gray
Shall sigh for thine.
But life shall on and upward go ;
Th' eternal step of Progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow,
Which God repeats.
Take heart !- the Waster builds again,
A charméd life old Goodness hath ; The tares may perish, -- but the grain
Is not for death.
God works in all things ; all obey
His first propulsion from the night : Wake thou and watch !- the world is gray With morning light!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
“Spare," Art implored, “yon holy pile ;
That grand old time-worn turret spare" : Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle,
Cried out, “Forbear!”
Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind,
Groped for his old accustomed stone, Leaned on his staff, and wept to find
His seat o'erthrown.
Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes,
O'erhung with paly locks of gold, Why smite,” he asked in sad surprise,
“The fair, the old ?"
Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke,
Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke,
As from a dream.
I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled,
The Waster seemed the Builder too ; Up springing from the ruined Old
I saw the New.
'T was but the ruin of the bad,
The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had
Was living still.
Calm grew the brows of him I feared ;
The frown which awed me passed away, And left behind a smile which cheered
Like breaking day.
The grain grew green on battle-plains,
O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; The slave stood forging from his chains
The spade and plough.
Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay
And cottage windows, flower-intwined, Looked out upon the peaceful bay
And hills behind.
Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red,
The lights on brimming crystal fell, Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head
And mossy well.
Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope,
Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed,