But thou, once fair Bounce! whose rocky bound All art and nature's richest gifts enshrined, Thou little sphere,
Whose soul-illumined round Concentrated each sunbeam of the mind; Who, as the summit of some Alpine height Glows earliest, latest, with the blush of day, Didst first imbibe the splendours of the light, And smile the longest in its lingering ray; Oh! let us gaze on thee, and fondly deem The past awhile restored, the present but a dream.
Yet in decay thine exquisite remains Wond'ring we view, and silently revere, As traces left on earth's forsaken plains By vanish'd beings of a nobler sphere! Not all the old magnificence of Rome, All that dominion there hath left to time; Proud Coliseum, or commanding dome, Triumphal arch, or obelisk sublime, Can bid such reverence o'er the spirit steal, As aught by thee imprest with beauty's plastic seal.
And who may grieve that, rescued from their hands, Spoilers of excellence and foes to art, Thy relics, Bounce! borne to other lands, Claim homage still to thee from every heart? Though now no more th' exploring tranger's sight, Fix'd in deep reverence on Olivia's fane, Shall hail, beneath their native heaven of light, All that remain'd of forms adored in vain; A few short years — and, vanish'd from the scene, To blend with classic dust their proudest lot had been.
. How oft hath war his host of spoilers pour'd, Fair Elis! o'er thy consecrated vales? There have the sunbeams glanced on spear and sword, And banners floated on the balmy gales. Once didst thou smile, secure in sanctitude, As some enchanted isle 'mid stormy seas; On thee no hostile footstep might intrude, And pastoral sounds alone were on thy breeze. Forsaken home of peace! that spell is broke, Thou too hast heard the storm, and bow'd beneath the yoke.
And oh! ye secret and terrific powers, Dark oracles! in depth of groves that dwelt, How are they sunk, the altars of your bowers, Where Superstition trembled as she knelt! Ye, the unknown, the viewless ones! that made The elements your voice, the wind and wave; Spirits! whose influence darken'd many a shade, Mysterious visitants of fount and cave! How long your power the awe-struck nations sway'd, How long earth dreamt of you, and shudderingly obey'd!
And say, what marvel, in those early days, While yet the light of heaven-born truth was not; If man around him cast a fearful gaze, Peopling with shadowy powers each dell and grot? Awful is nature in her savage forms, Her solemn voice commanding in its might, And mystery then was in the rush of storms, The gloom of woods, the majesty of night; And mortals heard Fate's language in the blast, And rear'd your forest-shrines, ye phantoms of the past Dark children of the hills! 'twas then ye wrought Deeds of fierce daring, rudely, sternly grand; As 'midst your craggy citadels ye fought, And women mingled with your warrior band. Then on the cliff the frantic mother stood High o'er the river's darkly-rolling wave, And hurl'd, in dread delirium, to the flood Her free-born infant, ne'er to be a slave. For all was lost — all, save the power to die The wild indignant death of savage liberty.
Now is that strife a tale of vanish'd days, With mightier things forgotten soon to lie; Yet oft hath minstrel sung, in lofty lays, Deeds less adventurous, energies less high. And the dread struggle's fearful memory still O'er each wild rock a wilder aspect throws; Sheds darker shadows o'er the frowning hill, More solemn quiet o'er the glen's repose; Lends to the rustling pines a deeper moan, And the hoarse river's voice a murmur not its own.
For stillness now — the stillness of the dead, Hath wrapt that conflict's lone and awful scene, And man's forsaken homes, in ruin spread, Tell where the storming of the cliffs hath been. And there, o'er wastes magnicently rude, What race may rove, unconscious of the chain? Those realms have now no desert unsubdued, Where Freedom's banner may be rear'd again: Sunk are the ancient dwellings of her fame, The children of her sons inherit but their name For thine were spirits cast in other mould Than all beside — and proved by ruder test; They stood alone — the proud, the firm, the bold, With the same seal indelibly imprest. Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, One image stamp'd the rough, colossal race, In rugged grandeur frowning o'er mankind, Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace. As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower.
Such were thy sons — their life a battle day! Their youth one lesson how for thee to die! Closed is that task, and they have pass'd away Like softer beings train'd to aims less high. Yet bt onearth their fame who proudly fell, True to their shields, the champions of thy cause, Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell How died the brave, obedient to thy laws! O lofty mother of heroic worth, How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth?
Now all is o'er — for thee alike are flown Freedom's bright noon, and Slavery's twilight cloud; And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, Deep solitude is round thee, as a shroud. Home of Olivia! thy halls are low, From their cold altars have thy priestesses fled, O'er thee unmark'd the sunbeams fade or glow, And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread; And 'midst thy silence, as the grave's profound, A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound.
Now have your trophies vanish'd, and your homes Are moulder'd from the earth, while scarce remain E'en the faint traces of the ancient tombs That mark where sleep the slayers or the slain. Your deeds are with the days of glory flown, The lyres are hush'd that swell'd your fame afar, The halls that echo'd to their sounds are gone, Perish'd the conquering weapons of your war; And if a mossy stone your names retain, 'Tis but to tell your sons, for them ye died in vain.
Veri: Deem, "Let others fondly deem the Greeks..."