III.
SIGHT OF ATHENS.
Stroph.—
“Stranger of this equestrian land,
On noblest seats of earth dost thou stand,
Colonus, marble-white;
Where most oft the nightingale
Warbles most musical
In verdant glade
Out of sight;—
In the wine-faced Ivy shade,
And hallowed grove with fruits of thousand kind,
Where no foot hath descended,
Where sun and wind no entrance find,
Haunts ever trod by Bacchanalian god,
By train of nymphs divine his way attended.
Antist.—
“'Neath heavenly dews is blooming there
Narcissus day by day with clusters fair,
The chaplet worn of old
By the mighty goddesses;
And in silken tresses
Crocus shining bright
With its gold.
Sleepless-flowing day and night
Cease not the founts that in Cephisus pour,
Through all the day still wending
With fertile shower the meadows o'er;
Nor tuneful Nine this favour'd land decline;
Nor Venus to her golden harness bending.
Stroph.—
“Here too is a plant which never
Groweth such on Asia's land, I hear,
Nor on Pelops' Dorian Isle doth appear
Blooming ever;—
Self-sown plant no hand may touch,
Terror of the hostile spear,
The child-sustaining Olive, ever green,
Here of all place most fertile seen;
And no one, be he old or young, on such
The mark of a destroying hand hath laid.
On it the Eye that never sleeps
Of Morian Jove its vigil keeps,
And Athena, blue-eyed maid.
Antist.—
“Other theme I have of praises,
Mighty gift of mighty Deity,
Which this maternal city of the free
Ever raises,
For her ships as for her steeds
Famed by land and famed by sea.
O Son of Saturn, thou, Neptunian King,
Dost unto her this glory bring:
The steed-reproving charm from thee proceeds,
The bridle first beheld in this our street;
And from thy port the bark with wings
Companion of the Nereids springs,
With her countless, oary feet.”
SIGHT OF OXFORD.
What inspirations hail the view
Of Athens' sacred seat,
And all the poet's soul renew
His own loved haunts to greet!
The nightingale—the ivy green—
The hallow'd shade most dread,
The awful presence of the Unseen
Stills thought and voice and tread.
Minerva there her watch doth keep
On her green olive bower,
The Eye of God which cannot sleep,
The nation's secret power.
But all these words my bosom move
With thoughts more holy still,
Of Oxford seen from neighb'ring grove,
And woodland verdant hill.
The nightingale most frequent there
Sings in her covert glades,
While calm religion's gloom severe
Watches the holy shades.
Thus chasten'd awe with gentle love
Are in those haunts combined,
All looser fancies to reprove,
And still the vagrant mind.
The memories of that peaceful place
Fill up our after life,
The prayers and quiet ways of grace,
And yet more holy strife.
The solitudes of summer even,
And thoughts in stillness found,
Like walks with Angel-guests from Heaven,
Which haunt that sacred ground.
May all the lighter joys of youth
Be still'd in that repose,
And the more solemn shade of truth
Subdue its keener woes!
The air itself is full of sound
From bells and sacred calls,
And ancient Faith hath cast around
Its shadow on her walls.
What poets spake of haunted grove
Here dwells in bowers and shrines,—
Severity with awful love
Which better hope divines.
There should be here no room for vice,
Nor the luxurious board,
Nor cares of filthy avarice,
And secret-gathering hoard.
Here should be heard no plaint or call
For this world's liberty,
But fear of God be All in All,
Which only maketh free.
Our Church's life here hath its birth,
Her very heart that beats,
The pulse is felt throughout the earth
Which stirs in her retreats.
May God, I pray, that holy place
For our own children keep,
When we ourselves behold His face,
And 'neath His shadow sleep.
