 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
67
PŒSTUM.
What tow'ring Fanes through countless ages spar'd,
Stand on you plain in grandeur unimpair'd!
No rich proportions of Corinthian style,
No lighter graces deck the noble pile;
But rais'd in Doric mould, those massive forms,
Have brav'd the warfare of a thousand storms.
Stand on you plain in grandeur unimpair'd!
No rich proportions of Corinthian style,
No lighter graces deck the noble pile;
But rais'd in Doric mould, those massive forms,
Have brav'd the warfare of a thousand storms.
Amid the wreck where stone is hurl'd from stone,
In undiminish'd strength they stand alone;
Still may each simple ornament be trac'd,
Each touch which time has soften'd, not effac'd;
Though o'er their front age spreads a wild flower wreath,
The fluted marble rests unchang'd beneath.
In undiminish'd strength they stand alone;
Still may each simple ornament be trac'd,
Each touch which time has soften'd, not effac'd;
Though o'er their front age spreads a wild flower wreath,
The fluted marble rests unchang'd beneath.
68
Here Posidonia rose, her dawning sway
Shone o'er the waters of yon lovely bay;—
Still in the midst yon circling ruins serve
To mark the arena's wide extending curve:
These walls once echo'd all the busy strife,
The joys, the fears, the schemes of human life;
Ambition's dream, the warrior's dauntless soul,
The poet's fancy spurning earth's control;
And beauty—matchless in her bright career,
And deem'd almost immortal—triumph'd here:—
Shone o'er the waters of yon lovely bay;—
Still in the midst yon circling ruins serve
To mark the arena's wide extending curve:
These walls once echo'd all the busy strife,
The joys, the fears, the schemes of human life;
Ambition's dream, the warrior's dauntless soul,
The poet's fancy spurning earth's control;
And beauty—matchless in her bright career,
And deem'd almost immortal—triumph'd here:—
Those triumphs are no more,—those forms are flown,
And Time's dark mantle clothes the crumbling stone.
Mighty in arms the Roman conqu'ror came,
And chang'd her laws, her language, and her name;
Augustan minstrels in a foreign tongue,
Of Pœstum's twice expanding roses sung;
Or chose her violets meek unearthly hue,
And rank'd their sweets with hybla's honied dew.
Her children, outcasts in their native home,
Shrunk from the sound of Pœstum and of Rome.
While o'er that home by youthful hopes endear'd,
Triumphant foes their eagle banners rear'd.
Yet still the vanquish'd natives yearly met,
And talk'd of days—the heart can ne'er forget;
Still murmur'd Posidonia's name with tears,
And spoke the language of their happier years.
And Time's dark mantle clothes the crumbling stone.
Mighty in arms the Roman conqu'ror came,
And chang'd her laws, her language, and her name;
69
Of Pœstum's twice expanding roses sung;
Or chose her violets meek unearthly hue,
And rank'd their sweets with hybla's honied dew.
Her children, outcasts in their native home,
Shrunk from the sound of Pœstum and of Rome.
While o'er that home by youthful hopes endear'd,
Triumphant foes their eagle banners rear'd.
Yet still the vanquish'd natives yearly met,
And talk'd of days—the heart can ne'er forget;
Still murmur'd Posidonia's name with tears,
And spoke the language of their happier years.
70
Soon all was chang'd, each sound of life was hush'd,
The ruthless Arab o'er the ramparts rush'd;
The brand was hurl'd, and like the struggling breath—
The last convulsive energies of death;—
With fatal splendour fir'd, her towers illume
The mountains, and the waves, and all is gloom.
The ruthless Arab o'er the ramparts rush'd;
The brand was hurl'd, and like the struggling breath—
The last convulsive energies of death;—
With fatal splendour fir'd, her towers illume
The mountains, and the waves, and all is gloom.
All save yon lonely forms which stand on high,
In Doric strength, and bold simplicity,
O'er these the with'ring flame, the wintry blast,
And desolation's terrors powerless pass'd;
As if their Gods with tutelary sway,
Watch'd o'er the sacred pile, to shield it from decay.
In Doric strength, and bold simplicity,
O'er these the with'ring flame, the wintry blast,
And desolation's terrors powerless pass'd;
As if their Gods with tutelary sway,
Watch'd o'er the sacred pile, to shield it from decay.
The ruins of an amphitheatre remain, the walls of the city may be traced, and are in some places six feet high.
| Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems | |