The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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The Temple of Theseus.
—James Wallis Eastburn.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
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The Temple of Theseus. —James Wallis Eastburn.
Uncrumbled yet, the sacred fane uprears
Its brow, majestic in the storm of years:
Time has but slightly dared to steal away
The marks of beauty from its columns gray;
Each sculptured capital in glory stands,
As once the boast of those delightful lands,
Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down,
Some baser monument of art to crown.
Its brow, majestic in the storm of years:
Time has but slightly dared to steal away
The marks of beauty from its columns gray;
Each sculptured capital in glory stands,
As once the boast of those delightful lands,
Nor barbarous hand has plucked their beauties down,
Some baser monument of art to crown.
Girt with the sculptured deeds achieved of yore,
That once the crowd beheld but to adore,
Rich with the proud exploits of Æthra's son,
And lofty conquests by Alcides won;—
The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear;
The passing pilgrim pauses to revere;
The pensive poet views its columns proud,
And Fancy hears again the anthem loud,
From kindling bards, that once arose on high,—
A tuneful chorus trembling on the sky.
That once the crowd beheld but to adore,
Rich with the proud exploits of Æthra's son,
And lofty conquests by Alcides won;—
The splendid pile still claims the stranger's fear;
The passing pilgrim pauses to revere;
The pensive poet views its columns proud,
And Fancy hears again the anthem loud,
From kindling bards, that once arose on high,—
A tuneful chorus trembling on the sky.
The inner shrine no more protects the slave,
The holy walls no more the oppressed can save,
The wretch no longer safety there can claim,
And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name;
Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb,
His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom.
The holy walls no more the oppressed can save,
The wretch no longer safety there can claim,
And live secure in Theseus' hallowed name;
Sunk are his glories in Oblivion's tomb,
His deeds obscured by centuries of gloom.
To holier uses rise those walls on high,
And holier anthems murmur on the sky;
The shrine is crumbled to its native soil,
And pagan grandeur given as a spoil;
No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane,
And none to him prolong the adoring strain;
Devoted still to worship, and to Heaven,
To purer thoughts and holier prayers 'tis given.
And holier anthems murmur on the sky;
The shrine is crumbled to its native soil,
And pagan grandeur given as a spoil;
No worshipped Theseus decks that beauteous fane,
And none to him prolong the adoring strain;
Devoted still to worship, and to Heaven,
To purer thoughts and holier prayers 'tis given.
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