 | The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook |  |
Pillars had mouldered, Ages waned;
Since this plain tale beguiled an hour:
And Time and War had both profaned
The Glory-seat of Arts and Power.
Famed Greece, the beautiful and great;
Was but a wrecked and fallen state;
She was but as a funeral urn,
Holding the ashes, worlds revere;
O'er which the coldest heart will mourn,
And strangers hang to shed the tear.
Each monument was laid in dust,
By some ungodly, savage hand;
Her palace gates had gathered rust;
Her picture scrolls had fed the brand:
When, 'mid the relics scattered round;
One of surpassing skill was found,
The work was rare,
The marble fair,
The form, a bold and couchant Hound.
Since this plain tale beguiled an hour:
And Time and War had both profaned
The Glory-seat of Arts and Power.
Famed Greece, the beautiful and great;
Was but a wrecked and fallen state;
She was but as a funeral urn,
Holding the ashes, worlds revere;
O'er which the coldest heart will mourn,
And strangers hang to shed the tear.
Each monument was laid in dust,
By some ungodly, savage hand;
Her palace gates had gathered rust;
Her picture scrolls had fed the brand:
When, 'mid the relics scattered round;
One of surpassing skill was found,
The work was rare,
The marble fair,
The form, a bold and couchant Hound.
The old and wise, with judgment stern;
In curious search were seen to turn
With careless glance from all the rest,
And own that image, first and best.
The artist boy was seen to pause;
Ecstatic in his rapt applause.
No idle wanderer passed it by,
But marked with brighter, closer eye.
They lingered there to ask and trace
The legend such a form might lend;
But naught was known, save what its base
Told in the words, “Melaia's Friend.”
In curious search were seen to turn
With careless glance from all the rest,
And own that image, first and best.
The artist boy was seen to pause;
Ecstatic in his rapt applause.
No idle wanderer passed it by,
But marked with brighter, closer eye.
They lingered there to ask and trace
The legend such a form might lend;
But naught was known, save what its base
Told in the words, “Melaia's Friend.”
| The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook | |