And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: LXXXIV. When riseth Lacedæmon's hardihood, When Athens' children are with hearts endued, LXXXV. And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, LXXXVI. Save where some solitary column mourns • On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the intense heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on the plains even in winter. + Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the publis edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave, forined by the quarries, still remains, and will till the end of time. În all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible source of observation and design; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome; and the traveller will be struck with the beauty of the prospect over "Isles that crown the Ægean deep:" but, for an Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and Campbell : "Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, was more striking than the approach from the isles. In our second land excursion, we had a narrow escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told afterwards, by one of their prisoners, subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians: conjecturing very sagaciously, bat falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained stationary, and thus sayed our party, which was too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. Colonna ta no less a resort of painters than of pirates; there "The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, (See HODGSON'S Lady Jane Grey, &c.) But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist, and hope to renew my acquaintance with this and many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances. Where the gray stones and unmolested grass Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh "Alas!" LXXXVII. Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild : LXXXVIII. Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground; LXXXIX. The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career, xc. The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around. "Sta, viator, heroem calcas!" was the epitaph on the famous German general Count Merci-what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon? The principal barrow has recently been opened by Fauvel: few or no relics, as vases, &c., were found by the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hundred pounds! Alas!-"Expende-quot libras in duce summo-invenies!"-was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. XCI. Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. The parted bosom clings to wonted home, If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; He that is lonely, hither let him roam, And gaze complacent on congenial earth. Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. XCIII. Let such approach this consecrated land, By every honest joy of love and life endear'd! XCIV. For thee, who thus in too protracted song Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng Of louder minstrels in these later days: To such resign the strife for fading baysIll may such contest now the spirit move Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, And none are left to please when none are left to love. XCV. Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one! Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one, albeit unworthy thee. What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall seeWould they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam! XCVI. Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, And grief with grief continuing still to blend, Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. XCVII. Then must I plunge again into the crowd, Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. XCVIII. What is the worst of woes that wait on age? CANTO THE THIRD. "Afin que cette application vous forçat de penser à autre chose; Il n'y a en vérité de remède que celui-là et le temps."-Lettre du Roi de Prusse à D'Alembert, Sept. 7, 1776. I. Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! Awaking with a start, The waters heave around me; and on high Whither I know not; but the hour 's gone by, When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye. II. Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar! Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! Though the strain'd mast should quiver as a reed. And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail III. In my youth's summer I did sing of One, Plod the last sands of life, where not a flower appears. IV. Since my young days of passion-joy, or pain, To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. V. He, who grown aged in this world of woe, VI. "Tis to create, and in creating live Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, |