My voice, oh son, shall go before,
Beloved, follow me!"
So, in the visions of his sire, he went
Where Cronium's scarr'd and barren brow
Was red with morning's earliest glow
Though darkness wrapp'd the nether element—
There, in a lone and craggy dell,
A double spirit on him fell,
Th' unlying voice of birds to tell,
And, (when Alcmena's son should found
The holy games in Elis crown'd,)
By Jove's high altar evermore to dwell,
Prophet and priest !-From him descend
The fathers of our valiant friend,
Wealthy alike and just and wise,
Who trod the plain and open way;
And who is he that dared despise
With galling taunt the Cronian prize,
Or their illustrious toil gainsay,
Whose chariots whirling twelve times round
With burning wheels th' Olympian ground
Have gilt their brow with glory's ray?
For, not the steams of sacrifice
From cool Cyllene's height of snow,
Nor vainly from thy kindred rise
The heaven-appeasing litanies
To Hermes, who, to men below,
Or gives the garland or denies:-
By whose high aid, Agesias, know,
And his, the thunderer of the skies,
The olive wreath hath bound thy brow!
Arcadian! Yes, a warmer zeal
Shall whet my tongue thy praise to tell!
I feel the sympathetic flame
Of kindred love—a Theban I,
Whose parent nymph from Arcady
(Metope's daughter, Thebe) came.—
Dear fountain goddess, warrior maid,
By whose pure rills my youth hath play'd;
Who now assembled Greece among,
To car-borne chiefs and warriors strong,
Have wove the many-coloured song.—
Then, minstrel! bid thy chorus rise
To Juno, queen of deities,
Parthenian lady of the skies!
For, live there yet who dare defame
With sordid mirth our country's name;
Who tax with scorn our ancient line,
And call the brave Boeotians swine?
Yet, Æneas, sure thy numbers high
May charm their brutish enmity:
Dear herald of the holy muse,
And, teeming with Parnassian dews,
Cup of untasted harmony!
That strain once more!-The chorus raise
To Syracusa's wealthy praise,
And his the lord whose happy reign
Controls Trinacria's ample plain,
Hiero, the just, the wise,
Whose steamy offerings rise
To Jove, to Ceres, and that darling maid,
Whom, rapt in chariot bright,
And horses silver-white,
Down to his dusky bower the lord of hell convey'd!
Oft hath he heard the Muses' string resound
His honour'd name; and may his latter days,
With wealth, and worth, and minstrel garlands crown'd,
Mark with no envious ear a subject praise,
Who now from fair Arcadia's forest wide
To Syracusa, homeward, from his home
Returns, a common care, a common pride.—
(And, whoso darkling braves the ocean's foam,
May safeliest moor'd with twofold anchor ride ;)
Arcadia, Sicily on either side
Guard him with prayer;—and thou who rulest the deep,
Fair Amphitrite's lord! in safety keep
His tossing keel,—and evermore to me
No meaner theme assign of poesy!
It was the blessed morn of Whitsuntide,
And Carduel echoed to the festive call,
As his shrill task the clear-voiced herald plied,
And shriller trumpet shook the castle wall.
YE whom the world has wrong'd, whom men despise,
Who sadly wander through this vale of tears,
And lift in silent dread your wistful eyes
O'er the bleak wilderness of future years,
Where from the storm no sheltering bourn appears Whom genius, moody guide, has led astray,
And pride has mock'd, and want with chilling fears, Quench'd of each youthful hope the timid ray : Yet envy not the great, yet envy not the gay!
Say, can the silken bed refreshment bring,
When from the restless spirit sleep retires?
Or, the sharp fever of the serpent's sting,
Pains it less shrewdly for his burnish'd spires?
Oh, worthless is the bliss the world admires,
And helpless whom the vulgar mightiest deem :
Tasteless fruition, impotent desires,
Pomp, pleasure, pride, how valueless ye seem
When the poor soul awakes, and finds its life a dream!
And those, if such may ponder o'er my song,
Whose light heart bounds to pleasure's minstrelsy;
To whom the faery realms of love belong;
And the gay motes of young prosperity
Dance in thy sunshine and obscure thine eye ;
Suspect of earthly good the gilded snare,
When sorrow wreathes her brow with revelry,
And friendship's hollow smiles thy wreck prepare!
Alas! that demon forms should boast a mask so fair!
See'st thou yon flutterer in the summer sky,
Wild as thy glance, and graceful as thy form?
Yet, lady, know, yon beauteous butterfly
Is parent of the loathsome canker-worm,
Whose restless tooth, worse than December's storm, Shall mar thy woodbine bower with greedy rage. Fair was her face as thine, her heart as warm, Whose antique story marks my simple page; Yet luckless youth was hers, and sorrowful old age.
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