Fair and bright her temple shone,
Meet for such divine abode;
There in majesty alone,
Loftily she trode :

Time in vain his bolt has hurled;
Still it stands, to awe the world.

Thine were all that rouse the spirit
From its dim and deathly dreams :
O, shall man again inherit
Such undying beams?

Lend thy kindling breath awhile;
Earth shall then in glory smile.

Land where every vale and mountain
Echoes to immortal strains,

Light is round the stream and fountain,

Light on all thy plains.

Never shall thy glory set;

Thou shalt be our beacon yet.

Yes,

for now thy sons are calling To the tombs that hold their sires, One by one their chains are falling,

They have lit their fires;
See! from peak to peak they run,
Bearing Freedom's signal on.

On, from peak to peak, they rush;
Wide and far the glory flows;
Streams of light unearthly gush
From their crown of snows.
Hear ye not the warning call?
Shall a nation rise and fall?"

No! forbid it, gracious Heaven!
Though a world look coldly on;
Be the unyielding spirit given, -
Be the battle won;

Or if hope desert the brave,
Be their land their common grave!

If they lose the glorious prize,

Be thy rocks a nation's tomb,
Man shall sink, no more to rise,
If they meet that doom!
Come, ye slaves! and read, and fear,
Freedom's last, best hope is here!

James Gates Percival,

PELASGIAN AND CYCLOPEAN WALLS.

E cliffs of masonry, enormous piles,

YE

Which no rude censure of familiar time
Nor record of our puny race defiles,
In dateless mystery ye stand sublime,
Memorials of an age of which we see

Only the types in things that once were ye.

Whether ye rest upon some bosky knoll,
Your feet by ancient myrtles beautified,
Or seem, like fabled dragons, to unroll
Your swarthy grandeurs down a bleak hillside,
Still on your savage features is a spell
That makes ye half divine, ineffable.

With joy, upon your height I stand alone,
As on a precipice, or lie within

Your shadow wide, or leap from stone to stone,

Pointing my steps with careful discipline,

And think of those grand limbs whose nerve could bear These masses to their places in mid-air;

Of Anakim, and Titans, and of days
Saturnian, when the spirit of man was knit
So close to Nature, that his best essays

At Art were but in all to follow it,
In all, dimension, dignity, degree;

And thus these mighty things were made to be.

THOU

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

Lord Houghton.

HOU still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone :

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal,—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,

Forever piping songs forever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
Forever panting and forever young;

All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or seashore,

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets forevermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: cold pastoral!

When old age shalt this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

John Keats.