 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
66
DEMOSTHENES.
Strange, that within the wondrous walls of space,Ringing on some rare atmosphere far hence,
The periods of thy matchless eloquence
Are flying still in vibratory race,—
O prince of words and thoughts, Demosthenes:
Thee, centuries agone, great Athens bore
Chief orator above those brilliant four,
Demades, Lycurgus, Lysias, Æschines;
For thy majestic energy was still
Foremost in might to move, and power to please,
While midnight toil matured thy graceful ease,
And country's love inspired each Siren sound,
Now soft and gentle, as a trickling rill,
Now like a rushing torrent pour'd around.
| Three Hundred Sonnets | |