 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
60
THUCYDIDES.
So might an angel weep, thou noble boy;For, all unmixt with envy's duller flame,
Enthusiastic hope, and chivalrous joy
To note the calm historian's rising fame,
Glow'd at thy heart, and bade thee emulate
Those grand attempts, that honourable fate,
A brother, not a foe: years sped away,
And saw thee, still with patriot feelings warm,
A warrior-exile at thy Thracian farm,
Weaving the web of glory, day by day,
For Athens, that ingrate; thy manly pen
Eternal good for evil could repay,
For all prophetic was thy boldness, when
It writ thy works, an ‘heritage for aye.’
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |