Greece
Soon falls the monumental bust,
The trophied pillar sinks to dust,
The marble arch and lofty tow'r
Submit to time's resistless pow'r;
The blood-stain'd laurels quickly fade,
The haughty victor's brows that shade;
But, in immortal verdure, bloom
The myrtle wreath that decks the poet's hallow'd tomb.
Fam'd Greece, of art and wealth the boast,
Where now is all thy splendor lost?
Thy domes that seem'd to threat the sky,
In undistinguish'd ruins ly;
Where stood the works of matchless hands
The rude and lonely cottage stands;
Where arts and virtue were combin'd,
Now vice and error rule the mind;
Where freedom's manly offspring trod,
Slaves hug their galling chains, and crouch beneath the rod.
But still, through ev'ry age the strain
Of matchless Homer shall remain:
Plac'd on th' Aonian height sublime,
He views unmov'd the flight of time.
The Muse bids heroes never die,
The Muse exalts them to the sky.
Before great Agamemnon's age
Liv'd many heroes brave and sage;
But, ah! lowly these sage and brave,
Unwept, unhonour'd in the grave:
They only, sung in Homer's page,
Defy time's all-destructive rage,
They only scap'd the gen'ral doom,
And boast exemption from th' oblivion of the tomb
Immortal Greece! where ev'ry art,
And ev'ry virtue shar'd a part;
Where chiefs in battle bravest fought,
And where sublimest poets wrote,
Where sages, more than mortal wise,
Explor'd the secrets of the skies,
And daring artists try'd a road
By imitation still untrod:
There, there alone, the human mind
Was to its highest pitch refin'd,
And, taught by genius, learn'd to soar
To heights unequall'd yet, and never known before.
What sep'rate worth in others shines
With brighter rays in Greece combines:
Their vary'd language such, as best
Their boundless reach of thought express'd,
In ev'ry form of writing try'd,
To all it equally apply'd,
Alike in bold and tender lays
Unalter'd excellence displays,
Form'd ev'ry passion to bestow,
Or rouse to rage, or melt to woe;
Now, like the streams that smoothly glide
Along their banks with silver tide;
Now like the torrent swoln with rain,
That rushes headlong o'er the plain;
Now like the surface of the deep,
When all the winds are hush'd to sleep;
Now like the surge that beats the shore,
While the resounding rocks rebellow to the roar.
Illustrious Greece, to which belong
Unrivall'd pow'rs of sacred song!
When Homer wakes the lofty sound,
What notes divine are heard around!
His pow'rful call each muse obeys;
Each deep recess his glance surveys;
And, skill'd in nature's inmost laws,
From her exhaustless stores he draws,
And joins the bard's impetuous rage
With the discernment of the sage.
Supreme in all the poet's art,
To touch the strings that move the heart;
But chief to rouse the rage of war,
And thro' th' ensanguin'd field direct his glowing car.
Yet, though to the Maeonian strain,
The highest praise of song pertain,
Nor be the Theban bard unsung,
To lofty themes his lyre who strung,
Who roils the rapid verse along,
Irregularly bold and strong,
And pours the animated strain,
In numbers that restraint disdain:
Whether, on the resounding string,
The majesty of gods he sing;
Or, to the hero's mem'ry, raise,
More lasting far than brass, a monument of praise.
But, hark! I hear a softer sound;
Perfumes diffuse their odours round;
The gay Anacreon strikes the lyre,
And melts the soul to soft desire;
About his lips the graces play,
The little loves inspire his lay;
With flow'ry wreaths his head is crown'd,
His temples are with roses bound;
His silver tresses breathe perfume;
His cheeks are flush'd with purple bloom:
Stretch'd on a couch, for pleasure made,
He quaffs the flowing bowl, and clasps the yielding maid.
These, Greece, were thine; — yet these how few
To whom the praise of song was due!
Thine were the masters of the stage,
Inspiring tenderness or rage;
Thine he, who oft a Doric lay
On oaten pipe was wont to play;
He, who of gods records the birth,
And sings the culture of the earth.
Besides, how many tuneful page
Has perish'd by barbarians rage,
Or sunk among the wrecks of all-devouring age.
Nor merely Greece demands the bays,
Alike possess'd of ev'ry praise.
There, History its tale pursues,
Form'd to instruct us, and amuse;
And lifts its voice to future times,
To virtue fires, and warns from crimes.
There eloquence its stores displays,
And with a force resistless sways;
Controuls the victor's proud career,
And bids the vanquish'd cease to fear.
The friend and guardian of our kind,
To heal the errors of the mind,
Philosophy had first its birth,
In Greece, when sent by Jove to earth.
There Liberty upheld her reign.
With ev'ry manly grace, and virtue in her train.
The trophied pillar sinks to dust,
The marble arch and lofty tow'r
Submit to time's resistless pow'r;
The blood-stain'd laurels quickly fade,
The haughty victor's brows that shade;
But, in immortal verdure, bloom
The myrtle wreath that decks the poet's hallow'd tomb.
Fam'd Greece, of art and wealth the boast,
Where now is all thy splendor lost?
Thy domes that seem'd to threat the sky,
In undistinguish'd ruins ly;
Where stood the works of matchless hands
The rude and lonely cottage stands;
Where arts and virtue were combin'd,
Now vice and error rule the mind;
Where freedom's manly offspring trod,
Slaves hug their galling chains, and crouch beneath the rod.
But still, through ev'ry age the strain
Of matchless Homer shall remain:
Plac'd on th' Aonian height sublime,
He views unmov'd the flight of time.
The Muse bids heroes never die,
The Muse exalts them to the sky.
Before great Agamemnon's age
Liv'd many heroes brave and sage;
But, ah! lowly these sage and brave,
Unwept, unhonour'd in the grave:
They only, sung in Homer's page,
Defy time's all-destructive rage,
They only scap'd the gen'ral doom,
And boast exemption from th' oblivion of the tomb
Immortal Greece! where ev'ry art,
And ev'ry virtue shar'd a part;
Where chiefs in battle bravest fought,
And where sublimest poets wrote,
Where sages, more than mortal wise,
Explor'd the secrets of the skies,
And daring artists try'd a road
By imitation still untrod:
There, there alone, the human mind
Was to its highest pitch refin'd,
And, taught by genius, learn'd to soar
To heights unequall'd yet, and never known before.
What sep'rate worth in others shines
With brighter rays in Greece combines:
Their vary'd language such, as best
Their boundless reach of thought express'd,
In ev'ry form of writing try'd,
To all it equally apply'd,
Alike in bold and tender lays
Unalter'd excellence displays,
Form'd ev'ry passion to bestow,
Or rouse to rage, or melt to woe;
Now, like the streams that smoothly glide
Along their banks with silver tide;
Now like the torrent swoln with rain,
That rushes headlong o'er the plain;
Now like the surface of the deep,
When all the winds are hush'd to sleep;
Now like the surge that beats the shore,
While the resounding rocks rebellow to the roar.
Illustrious Greece, to which belong
Unrivall'd pow'rs of sacred song!
When Homer wakes the lofty sound,
What notes divine are heard around!
His pow'rful call each muse obeys;
Each deep recess his glance surveys;
And, skill'd in nature's inmost laws,
From her exhaustless stores he draws,
And joins the bard's impetuous rage
With the discernment of the sage.
Supreme in all the poet's art,
To touch the strings that move the heart;
But chief to rouse the rage of war,
And thro' th' ensanguin'd field direct his glowing car.
Yet, though to the Maeonian strain,
The highest praise of song pertain,
Nor be the Theban bard unsung,
To lofty themes his lyre who strung,
Who roils the rapid verse along,
Irregularly bold and strong,
And pours the animated strain,
In numbers that restraint disdain:
Whether, on the resounding string,
The majesty of gods he sing;
Or, to the hero's mem'ry, raise,
More lasting far than brass, a monument of praise.
But, hark! I hear a softer sound;
Perfumes diffuse their odours round;
The gay Anacreon strikes the lyre,
And melts the soul to soft desire;
About his lips the graces play,
The little loves inspire his lay;
With flow'ry wreaths his head is crown'd,
His temples are with roses bound;
His silver tresses breathe perfume;
His cheeks are flush'd with purple bloom:
Stretch'd on a couch, for pleasure made,
He quaffs the flowing bowl, and clasps the yielding maid.
These, Greece, were thine; — yet these how few
To whom the praise of song was due!
Thine were the masters of the stage,
Inspiring tenderness or rage;
Thine he, who oft a Doric lay
On oaten pipe was wont to play;
He, who of gods records the birth,
And sings the culture of the earth.
Besides, how many tuneful page
Has perish'd by barbarians rage,
Or sunk among the wrecks of all-devouring age.
Nor merely Greece demands the bays,
Alike possess'd of ev'ry praise.
There, History its tale pursues,
Form'd to instruct us, and amuse;
And lifts its voice to future times,
To virtue fires, and warns from crimes.
There eloquence its stores displays,
And with a force resistless sways;
Controuls the victor's proud career,
And bids the vanquish'd cease to fear.
The friend and guardian of our kind,
To heal the errors of the mind,
Philosophy had first its birth,
In Greece, when sent by Jove to earth.
There Liberty upheld her reign.
With ev'ry manly grace, and virtue in her train.
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