THE PEN.
FROM THE GREEK OF TZETZES.
“Ημην αχρειον καλαμος φυτον.”
κ. τ. λ.
I was an useless thing, a lonely reed!
No blossom hung its beauty on the weed.
Alike in summer's sun and winter's gloom,
I sigh'd no fragrance, and I wore no bloom.
No cluster wreath'd me;—day and night I pined
On the wild moor, and wither'd in the wind.
At length a wanderer found me.—From my side
He smooth'd the pale decaying leaves, and dyed
My lips in Helicon! From that high hour
I spoke!—My words were flame and living power!
And there was sweetness round me,—never fell
Eve's sweeter dews upon the lily's bell.
I shone!—night died!—as if a trumpet call'd,
Man's spirit rose, pure, fiery, disenthrall'd!
Tyrants of earth, ye saw your light decline,
When I stood forth, a wonder and a sign!
To me the iron sceptre was a wand,
The roar of nations peal'd at my command;
To me the dungeon, sword, and scourge, were vain,
I smote the smiter, and I broke the chain:
Or towering o'er them all, without a plume,
I pierced the purple air, the tempest's gloom;
Till burst th'Olympian splendours on my eye,
Stars, temples, thrones, and gods,—Infinity!
