University of Virginia Library

Not yet the morn-star had his light withdrawn,
Not yet the sun had ris'n: while thick the dews
Hung on the branch, impatient of the dawn,
To Pæstum's solitude I sped my way.
'Twas the sweet season, 'twas the birth of May,
When gladness swells the universal voice,
And all that live in very life rejoice.
Onward I went rejoicing. But when lay
Before me Pæstum's desolated ground,
The sun in noontide blaze refus'd its light;
And suddenly on wings of violent sound
A storm-cloud, dark as night,
Rush'd from th' o'ershadow'd mountains, and amain
'Mid gusts of hail-stones burst th' o'erwhelming rain,
And thunders peal'd, and, preluding their roar,
Wing'd flames that rent the clouds travers'd the welkin o'er.
Yet—the dread thunder-peal, the lightning fire
That rent the clouds, and fitful flash'd between,
Seem'd, as accordant with the gloomy scene,
Deep awe, and solemn feelings to inspire.
But when the sun at transient interval
Burst thro' the veil, and on the desert laid
Its golden light, at once, with all their pomp
Of massive pillars, in their strength array'd,
Broader and brighter from surrounding shade,
Range answering range, the giant temples rose
Before me, like a forest avenue
Of oaks, beneath a thousand winters' snows
Grown gray. And still, where'er I turn'd my view
On the colossal fanes, incumbent Time
Deepen'd the character that Greece of yore
Bad Genius and her high-soul'd sons adore,
Th' Herculean grandeur of her Doric prime,
Simple—severe—sublime.

Sole monuments of nations long unknown!
Ye, in your strength alone,
Stand 'mid the desolate region, where of old
Dense population swarm'd.—How drear the shore,
O'er vacant billows vacant billows roll'd,
Where the sail ceas'd not gleaming, nor the oar
Its restless labour.—Void the courts that view'd
O'er hecatombs, the incense columns rise,
Dark'ning the sun-pav'd skies.
Where now the images, the molten gods,
The trident-bearer, and the brow of Jove,
Whose grandeur glorified your proud abodes?
Where fouler forms hid in the neighb'ring grove?
The singers, where? and the gay choir that tim'd
The timbrels on their breast?
And they, whose loose hair, widely streaming, breath'd
Fresh fragrance, as the floatings of their vest
In dance at solemn feast, like shadows, wreath'd
The giant columns? Where the hallow'd pomp
Of sacrifice, the victim, and the priest,
Who, when the offerings on the altar blaz'd,
Look'd down with fate's stern eye, and inly gaz'd
On doom'd futurity, while yet the beast
Reek'd in warm blood, and palpitating life
Throbb'd underneath the knife?
Gone are they—and ye too, proud fanes! who view'd
Throughout their wide vicissitude
The birth-day, and the death of ages past,
While suns and mutable moons their courses roll'd,
Till the gray world wax'd old:
Ye, who, regardless of the thunder's blast,
Unto the whirlwind say, and gathering storm,
That your colossal form
Shall o'er times yet unborn its shadow cast:
Oh! that ye too had fall'n, and found your grave
In th' earthquake's fathomless cave,
Ere that, un'wares, some hapless traveller,
By science led, and love of antique lore,
Your relics to explore;
Who, awe-struck, half a worshipper, had bent,
O'er each religious monument;
And now had gather'd, as from Nature's tomb,
One last memorial of his toil,
A Pæstan rose, twice-crown'd with yearly bloom,
To grace his native soil,
Had perish'd by the dark assassin's hand
Beneath the temple's gloom.
So, so to leave, far from his father-land,
His bones unblest on your abandon'd shore,
To whiten in the suns that bleach your strand,
Long as your temple lasts—till time shall be no more.