 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
290
PINDAR.
In the grave this head was laid;—
All its atoms in the sun
Through a thousand years have play'd,
Through a thousand shapes have gone:
It has blossom'd in the flower—
It has floated in the wave—
It has lit the starlight hour—
It has whisper'd through the cave!
Has the spirit perish'd all?
This was but its mouldering wall!
All its atoms in the sun
Through a thousand years have play'd,
Through a thousand shapes have gone:
It has blossom'd in the flower—
It has floated in the wave—
It has lit the starlight hour—
It has whisper'd through the cave!
Has the spirit perish'd all?
This was but its mouldering wall!
291
Fame, the prize of life, was won;
Pindar's mighty task was done;
Then on air his wing was cast!
Like a flame, the soul has past,
While the ashes rest below;—
Like a trumpet's sudden blast,
Gone!—what strength shall check it now?
When the lightning wears a chain,
Pindar's soul shall stoop again!—
Pindar's mighty task was done;
Then on air his wing was cast!
Like a flame, the soul has past,
While the ashes rest below;—
Like a trumpet's sudden blast,
Gone!—what strength shall check it now?
When the lightning wears a chain,
Pindar's soul shall stoop again!—
Yet the world has need of thee,
Man of Immortality:
Greece,—the name is lost in tears,—
Land of laurels, lyres, and spears!
Visions on that spot have birth,
Brighter than are born of earth:
In that soil of glorious strife,
Not an atom but had life.
Glow'd and triumph'd, fought and died,
As the patriot battle's tide,
Flood of arrow, lance, and sword,
O'er the whelm'd invader roar'd.
Man of Immortality:
Greece,—the name is lost in tears,—
Land of laurels, lyres, and spears!
Visions on that spot have birth,
Brighter than are born of earth:
In that soil of glorious strife,
Not an atom but had life.
Glow'd and triumph'd, fought and died,
As the patriot battle's tide,
292
O'er the whelm'd invader roar'd.
Hear us! from thy golden sphere!—
Shall the eternal sepulchre
Hide the spirit of the land?
Shall no great, redeeming hand—
(Oh, for such as dyed her seas
In thy day, Miltiades!)
Issuing from her peasant ranks,
Smite the turban'd robber horde,
Till the chain no longer clanks,—
Till the Turkish battle, gored,
Over Helle's purple banks
In returnless flight is pour'd;—
Till the phalanx, laurel-brow'd,
Like a rolling thunder-cloud,
Like a conflagration sweeping,
Of its plague-spot clears the soil;
And no more the voice of weeping,
Woman's shame, or manhood's spoil,
Grieves the listening midnight sky?—
Pindar! shall her glory die!
Shall, like thine, no godlike strain
Teach her to be great again?
Hear us, from thy starry throne
Hear!—by those in Marathon!
Shall the eternal sepulchre
Hide the spirit of the land?
Shall no great, redeeming hand—
(Oh, for such as dyed her seas
In thy day, Miltiades!)
Issuing from her peasant ranks,
Smite the turban'd robber horde,
Till the chain no longer clanks,—
Till the Turkish battle, gored,
Over Helle's purple banks
In returnless flight is pour'd;—
Till the phalanx, laurel-brow'd,
Like a rolling thunder-cloud,
Like a conflagration sweeping,
Of its plague-spot clears the soil;
And no more the voice of weeping,
Woman's shame, or manhood's spoil,
293
Pindar! shall her glory die!
Shall, like thine, no godlike strain
Teach her to be great again?
Hear us, from thy starry throne
Hear!—by those in Marathon!
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |