What profit is given them of thee;

What wrath has enkindled with madness of mind
Her limbs that were bounden, his face that was blind,
To be locked as in wrestle together, and lighten
With fire that shall darken thy fire in the sky,
Body to body and eye against eye

In a war against kind,

Till the bloom of her fields and her high hills whiten With the foam of his waves more high.

For the sea-marks set to divide of old

The kingdoms to ocean and earth assigned,
The hoar sea-fields from the cornfield's gold,
His wine-bright waves from her vineyards' fold,
Frail forces we find

To bridle the spirit of gods, or bind

Till the heat of their hearts wax cold.

But the peace that was 'stablished between them to stand

Is rent now in twain by the strength of his hand,
Who stirs up the storm of his sons overbold
To pluck from fight what he lost of right,
By council and judgment of gods that spake
And gave great Pallas the strife's fair stake,
The lordship and love of the lovely land,

The grace of the town that hath on it for crown
But a headband to wear

Of violets one-hued with her hair:

For the vales and the green high places of earth
Hold nothing so fair,

And the depths of the sea bear no such birth
Of the manifold births they bear.

Too well, too well was the great stake worth
A strife divine for the gods to judge,

A crowned god's triumph, a foiled god's grudge,
Though the loser be strong and the victress wise
Who played long since for so large a prize,
The fruitful, immortal, anointed, adored,
Dear city of men without master or lord,
Fair fortress and fortress of sons born free,
Who stand in her sight and in thine, O sun,
Slaves of no man, subjects of none;

A wonder enthroned on the hills and sea,
A maiden crowned with a fourfold glory

That none from the pride of her head may rend,
Violet and olive-leaf purple and hoary,
Song-wreath and story the fairest of fame,
Flowers that the winter can blast not or bend;
A light upon earth as the sun's own flame,

A name as his name,

Athens, a praise without end.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

ATHENS.

LAND of Solon, Plato, and of men

Whose glorious like earth ne'er shall see again! Thou art not dead, thy every plain and hill Sends forth a voice, and teems with spirits still! What though no more they teach, with valor burn? Thy sage and warrior breathe from out the urn, And each lone wreck that moss and ivies bind Points to bright days, and speaks of godlike mind.

But rock-crowned Athens calls our thoughts away,
There sits she, lovely in her calm decay,

The eye of Greece, Fame's daughter sad and lone,
The queen of Wisdom on her mouldering throne.
How thrill we, entering slow the western gate,
To climb yon mount where mightiest sages sate!
The rostrum, carved from stone, is seen this hour,
Where Eloquence distilled her silver shower.
There on Mars Hill stood Paul with flashing eye,
Like some bright form just lighted from the sky,
Marvelled so blind learned Athens still should be,
Admired but mourned her Pagan brilliancy.

What lofty columns near Ilissus' stream

Tower o'er each wreck, and glitter in the beam?
Temple of Jove! around thy ruined site
Dogs lurk by day, the owlet hoots by night;
Where kings and heroes wont deep awe to feel,
Not one poor trembler now is found to kneel.
But pass we other scenes, where living men
Have reared their homes, yes, Athens lives again,
Called from the gloom of strong Oppression's grave,
No more the Moslem's scorn, the tyrant's slave;
Onward the pilgrim wends, and lifts his eyes
Where the proud rock of Cecrops courts the skies,
Bearing the pile, whose beauty well may claim
Homage from taste, and challenge endless fame.

We climb the ancient steep, which chief and sage Mounted before, through many a changeful age; Where Cimon blessed the gods that Greece was free,

And Thrasybulus shouted "Victory!"
From Alpine mountains view the world below,

Towns, waving woods, and streams meandering slow; Dim is the scene to that which greets thee here, Prompting to worship, waking rapture's tear.

Yes, rise, fair mount! the bright blue heavens to kiss,
Stoop not thy pride, august Acropolis!

Thy brow still wears its crown of columns gray,
Beauteous in ruin, stately in decay.

Two thousand years o'er earth have spread their pall,
Not yet, thy boast, Minerva's shrine shall fall:
In spite of rapine, fire, and War's red arm,
Enough remains to awe us, and to charm;
Glory and Phidias' shade the relic keep,

Shield as they watch, and strengthen as they weep.
The Doric columns, wrought from fairest stone,
Severe but graceful, round the cella thrown,
The lofty front, the frieze where sculptures shine,
The long, long architrave's majestic line,
Dazzle the eye with beauty's rich excess,
O'erpower the mind by too much loveliness.

Athens! thou birthplace of the great, the free! Though bowed thy power, and dimmed thy name may

be,

Though old Renown's once dazzling sun hath set,
Fair beams the star of Memory o'er thee yet.
City! where sang the bard, and taught the sage,
Thy shrines may fall, thou ne'er wilt know old age;
Fresh shall thy image glow in every heart,

And but with Time's last hour thy fame depart.

Nicholas Michell.

A VOICE FROM ACADEME.

VER this azure poplar glade

above,

Ebbs back from woolly clouds that move
Like browsing lambs and cast no shade;
And straight before me, faintly seen
Through emerald boughs that intervene,
The visible sun turns white and weaves
Long webs of silver through the leaves.
The grassy sward beneath my foot
Is soft as lips of lambs and beeves.
How cool those lilies at the root
Of yonder tree, that dimly dance
Through dews of their own radiance!
Yonder I see the river run,

Half in the shade, half in the sun;
And as I near its rushy brink
The sparkling minnows, where they lie
With silver bellies to the sky,

Flash from me in a shower and sink.
I stand in shadows cool and sweet,
But in the mirror at my feet
The heated azure heavens wink.

All round about this shaded spot,
Whither the sunshine cometh not,
Where all is beautiful repose,
I know the kindled landskip glows;
And further, flutter golden showers