Exhaustless fount of intellectual day,

Centre of souls. Nor doth the mastering voice
Of Nature cease within to prompt aright
Their steps; nor is the care of Heaven withheld
From sending to the toil external aid;
That in their stations all may persevere
To climb the ascent of being, and approach
For ever nearer to the life divine.

But this eternal fabric was not rais'd
For man's inspection. Though to some be given
To catch a transient visionary glimpse
Of that majestic scene which boundless power
Prepares for perfect goodness, yet in vain
Would human life her faculties expand
To embosom such an object. Nor could e'er
Virtue or praise have touch'd the hearts of men,
Had not the sovran guide, through every stage
Of this their various journey, pointed out
New hopes, new toils, which to their humble sphere
Of sight and strength might such importance hold
As doth the wide creation to his own.
Hence all the little charities of life,

With all their duties: hence that favourite palm
Of human will, when duty is suffic'd,
And still the liberal soul in ampler deeds
Would manifest herself; that sacred sign
Of her rever'd affinity to him

Whose bounties are his own; to whom nope said,
"Create the wisest, fullest, fairest world,
And make its offspring happy ;" who, intent
Some likeness of himself among his works
To view, hath pour'd into the human breast
A ray of knowledge and of love, which guides
Earth's feeble race to act their Maker's part,
Self-judging, self-oblig'd: while, from before
That godlike function, the gigantic power
Necessity, though wont to curb the force
Of Chaos and the savage elements,
Retires abash'd, as from a scene too high
For her brute tyranny, and with her bears
Her scorned followers, Terrour, and base Awe,
Who blinds herself, and that ill-suited pair,
Obedience link'd with Hatred. Then the Soul
Arises in her strength; and, looking round
Her busy sphere, whatever work she views,
Whatever counsel bearing any trace
Of her Creator's likeness, whether apt
To aid her fellows, or preserve herself
In her superior functions unimpair'd,
Tuither she turns exulting: that she claims
As her peculiar good: on that, through all
The fickle seasons of the day, she looks
With reverence still: to that, as to a fence
Acainst affliction and the darts of pain,
Her drooping hopes repair: and, once oppos'd
To that, all other pleasure, other wealth
Vile, as the dross upon the molten gold,
Appears, and loathsome as the briny sea
To him who languishes with thirst, and sighs
For some known fountain pure. For what can strive
With virtue? which of Nature's regions vast
Can in so many forms produce to sight
Such powerful beauty? Beauty, which the eye
Of Hatred cannot look upon secure :
Which Envy's self contemplates, and is turn'd
Fre long to tenderness, to infant smiles,
Or tears of humblest love. Is aught so fair
In all the dewy landscapes of the Spring,
The summer's noontide groves, the purple eve
At harvest-home, or in the frosty Moon

Glittering on some smooth sea, is aught so fair
As virtuous friendship? as the honour'd roof
Whither from highest Heaven immortal Love
His torch ethereal and his golden bow
Propitious brings, and there a temple holds,
To whose unspotted service gladly vow'd
The social band of parent, brother, child,
With smiles and sweet discourse and gentle deeds
Adore his power? What gift of richest clime
E'er drew such eager eyes, or prompted such
Deep wishes, as the zeal that snatcheth back
From Slander's poisonous tooth a foe's renown;
Or crosseth Danger in his lion-walk,
A rival's life to rescue? as the young
Athenian warrior sitting down in bonds,
That his great father's body might not want
A peaceful, humble tomb? the Roman wife
Teaching her lord how harmless was the wound
Of Death, how impotent the tyrant's rage,
Who nothing more could threaten to afflict
Their faithful love? Or is there in the abyss,
Is there, among the adamantine spheres
Wheeling unshaken through the boundless void,
Aught that with half such majesty can fill
The human bosom, as when Brutus rose
Refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar's fate
Amid the crowd of patriots; and, his arm
Aloft extending like eternal Jove

When guilt brings down the thunder, call'd aloud
On Tully's name, and shook the crimson sword
Of Justice in his rapt astonish'd eye,
And bad the father of his country hail,
For, lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust,
And Rome again is free? Thus, through the paths
Of human life, in various pomp array'd
Walks the wise daughter of the judge of Heaven,
Fair Virtue; from her Father's throne supreme
Sent down to utter laws, such as on Earth
Most apt he knew, most powerful to promote
The weal of all his works, the gracious end
Of his dread empire. And though haply man's
Obscurer sight, so far beyond himself
And the brief labours of his little home,
Extends not; yet, by the bright presence won
Of this divine instructress, to her sway
Pleas'd he assents, nor heeds the distant goal
To which her voice conducts him. Thus hath God,
Still looking toward his own high purpose, fix'd
The virtues of his creatures; thus he rules
The parent's fondness and the patriot's zeal;
Thus the warm sense of honour and of shame;
The vows of gratitude, the faith of love;
And all the comely intercourse of praise,
The joy of human life, the earthly Heaven,

How far unlike them must the lot of guilt
Be found! Or what terrestrial woe can match
The self-convicted bosom, which hath wrought
The bane of others or enslav'd itself
With shackles vile? Not poison, nor sharp fire,
Nor the worst pangs that ever monkish hate
Suggested, or despotic rage impos'd,
Were at that season an unwish'd exchange:
When the soul loaths herself: when, flying thence
To crowds, on every brow she sees portray'd
Fell demons, hate or scorn, which drive her back
To solitude, her judge's voice divine
To hear in secret, haply sounding through
The troubled dreams of midnight, and still, still
Demanding for his violated laws

Fit recompense, or charging her own tongue

To speak the award of Justice on herself.
For well she knows what faithful hints within
Were whisper'd to beware the lying forms
Which turn'd her footsteps from the safer way:
What cautions to suspect their painted dress,
And look with steady eyelid on their smiles,
Their frowns, their tears. In vain. The dazzling hues
Of Fancy, and Opinion's eager voice,
Too much prevail'd. For mortals tread the path
In which Opinion says they follow good
Or fly from evil: and Opinion gives
Report of good or evil, as the scene
Was drawn by Fancy, pleasing or deform'd:
Thus her report can never there be true
Where Fancy cheats the intellectual eye
With glaring colours and distorted lines.
Is there a man to whom the name of death
Brings Terrour's ghastly pageants conjur'd up
Before him, death-bed groans, and dismal vows,
And the frail soul plung'd head-long from the brink
Of life and day-light down the gloomy air,
And unknown depth, to gulfs of torturing fire
Unvisited by mercy? Then what hand
Can snatch this dreamer from the fatal toils
Which Fancy and Opinion thus conspire
To twine around his heart? or who shall hush
Their clamour, when they tell him that to die,
To risk those horrours, is a direr curse
Than basest life can bring? Though love with

prayers

Most tender, with affliction's sacred tears,
Beseech his aid; though gratitude and faith
Condemn each step which loiters; yet let none
Make answer for him that, if any frown
Of danger thwart his path, he will not stay,
Content, and be a wretch to be secure.
Here vice begins then at the gate of life,
Ere the young multitude to diverse roads
Part, like fond pilgrims on a journey unknown,
Sits Fancy, deep enchantress; and to each
With kind maternal looks presents her bowl,
A potent beverage. Heedless they comply:
Till the whole soul from that mysterious draught
Is ting'd, and every transient thought imbibes
Of gladness or disgust, desire or fear,

One home-bred colour: which not all the lights
Of Science e'er shall change; not all the storins
Of adverse Fortune wash away, nor yet
The robe of purest Virtue quite conceal.
Thence on they pass, where meeting frequent shapes
Of Good and Evil, cunning phantoms apt
To fire or freeze the breast, with them they join
In dangerous parley; listening oft, and oft
Gazing with reckless passion, while its garb
The spectre heightens, and its pompous tale
Repeats with some new circumstance to suit
That early tincture of the hearer's soul.
And should the guardian, Reason, but for one
Short moment yield to this illusive scene
His ear and eye, the intoxicating charm
Involves him, till no longer he discerns,
Or only guides to err. Then revel forth
A furious band, that spurn him from the throne,
And all is uproar. Hence Ambition climbs
With sliding feet and hands impure, to grasp
Those solemn toys which glitter in his view
On Fortune's rugged steep: hence pale Revenge
Unsheaths her murderous dagger: Rapine hence,
And envions Lust, by venal Fraud upborne,
Surmount the reverend barrier of the laws

Which kept them from their prey: hence all the

crimes

That e'er defil'd the Earth, and all the plagues
That follow them for vengeance, in the guise
Of Honour, Safety, Pleasure, Ease, or Pomp,
Stole first into the fond believing mind.

Yet not by Fancy's witchcraft on the brain
Are always the tumultuous passions driven
To guilty deeds, nor Reason bound in chains
That Vice alone may lord it. Oft, adorn'd
With motley pageants, Folly mounts his throne,
And plays her idiot antics, like a queen.

A thousand garbs she wears; a thousand ways
She whirls her giddy empire. Lo, thus far
With bold adventure to the Mantuan lyre
I sing for contemplation link'd with love
A pensive theme. Now haply should my song
Unbend that serious countenance, and learn
Thalia's tripping gait, her shrill-ton'd voice,
Her wiles familiar: whether scorn she darts
In wanton ambush from her lip or eye,
Or whether with a sad disguise of care,
O'ermantling her gay brow, she acts in sport
The deeds of Folly, and from all sides round
Calls forth impetuous Laughter's gay rebuke;
Her province. But through every comic scene
To lead my Muse with her light pencil arm'd;
Through every swift occasion which the hand
Of Laughter points at, when the mirthful sting
Distends her labouring sides and chokes her tongue;
Were endless as to sound each grating note
With which the rooks, and chattering daws, and grave
Unwieldy inmates of the village pond,
The changing seasons of the sky proclaim;
Sun, cloud, or shower. Suffice it to have said,
Where'er the power of Ridicule displays

Her quaint-ey'd visage, some incongruous form,
Some stubborn dissonance of things combin'd,
Strikes on her quick perception: whether pomp,
Or praise, or beauty be dragg'd in, and shown
Where sordid fashions, where ignoble deeds,
Where foul deformity is wont to dwell;
Or whether these with shrewd and wayward spite
Invade resplendent pomp's imperious mien,
The charms of beauty, or the boast of praise.

Ask we for what fair end the Almighty Sire
In mortal bosoms stirs this gay contempt,
These grateful pangs of laughter; from disgust
Educing pleasure? Wherefore, but to aid
The tardy steps of Reason, and at once
By this prompt impulse urge us to depress
Wild Folly's aims? For though the sober light
Of Truth, slow dawning on the watchful mind,
At length unfolds, through many a subtile tie,
How these uncouth disorders end at last
In public evil; yet benignant Heaven,
Conscious how dim the dawn of truth appears
To thousands, conscious what a scanty pause
From labour and from care the wider lot
Of humble life affords for studious thought
To scan the maze of Nature, therefore stamp'd
These glaring scenes with characters of scorn,
As broad, as obvious to the passing clown
As to the letter'd sage's curious eye.

But other evils o'er the steps of man
Through all his walks impend; against whose might
The slender darts of Laughter nought avail:
A trivial warfare. Some, like cruel guards,
On Nature's ever-moving throne attend;
With mischief arm'd for him whoe'er shall thwart

The path of her inexorable wheels,
While she pursues the work that must be done
Through ocean, earth, and air. Hence frequent
forms

Of woe; the merchant, with his wealthy bark,
Bury'd by dashing waves; the traveller
Piere'd by the pointed lightning in his haste;
And the poor husbandman, with folded arms,
Surveying his lost labours, and a heap
Of blasted chaff the product of the field

So often fills his arms; so often draws
His lonely footsteps, silent and unseen,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
Oh! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
Those sacred hours when, stealing from the noise
Of Care and Envy, sweet Remembrance soothes
With Virtue's kindest looks his aching breast,
And turns his tears to rapture. Ask the crowd,
Which flies impatient from the village walk

1 deem, far worse, that other race of ills

Which human kind rear up among themselves;
That horrid offspring which misgovern'd will
Bears to fantastic errour; vices, crimes,

Furies that curse the Earth, and make the blows,
The heaviest blows, of Nature's innocent hand
Seem sport; which are indeed but as the care
Of a wise parent, who solicits good

To all her house, though haply at the price
Of tears and froward wailing and reproach
For some unthinking child, whom not the less
Its mother destines to be happy still.

These sources then of pain, this double lot
Of evil in the inheritance of man,
Requir'd for his protection no slight force,
No careless watch. And therefore was his breast
Fenc'd round with passions quick to be alarm'd,
Or stubborn to oppose; with fear, more swift
Than beacons catching flame from hill to hill,
Where armies land; with anger, uncontrol'd
As the young lion bounding on his prey;
With sorrow, that locks up the struggling heart;
And shame, that overcasts the drooping eye
As with a cloud of lightning. These the part
Perform of eager monitors, and goad

The soul more sharply than with points of steel,
Her enemies to shun or to resist.

And as those passions, that converse with good,
Are good themselves; as hope, and love, and joy,
Among the fairest and the sweetest boons
Of life, we rightly count: so these, which guard
Against invading evil, still excite

Some pain, some tumult: these, within the mind
Too oft admitted or too long retain'd,
Shock their frail seat, and by their uncurb'd rage
To savages more fell than Libya breeds
Transform themselves; till human thought becomes
A gloomy ruin, haunt of shapes unbless'd,
Of self-tormenting fiends; Horrour, Despair,
Hatred, and wicked Envy: foes to all
The works of Nature, and the gifts of Heaven.
But when through blameless paths to righteous
ends

Those keener passions urge the awaken'd soul,
I would not, as ungracious violence,
Their sway describe, nor from their free career
The fellowship of pleasure quite exclude.
For what can render, to the self-approv'd,
Their temper void of comfort, though in pain?
Who knows not with what majesty divine
The forms of Truth and Justice to the mind
Appear, ennobling oft the sharpest woe
With triumph and rejoicing? Who, that bears
A human bosom, hath not often felt

How dear are all those ties which bind our race
In gentleness together, and how sweet
Their force, let Fortune's wayward hand the while
Be kind or cruel? Ask the faithful youth
Why the cold urn, of her whom long he lov'd,

The savage winds have hurl'd upon the coast
Some helpless bark; while holy Pity melts
The general eye, or Terrour's icy hand
Smites their distorted limbs and horrent hair;
While every mother closer to her breast
Catcheth her child, and, pointing where the waves
Foam through the shatter'd vessel, shrieks aloud,
As one poor wretch, who spreads his piteous arins
For succour, swallow'd by the roaring surge,
As now another, dash'd against the rock,
Drops lifeless down. O! deemest thou indeed
No pleasing influence here by Nature given
To mutual terrour and compassion's tears?
No tender charm mysterious, which attracts
O'er all that edge of pain the social powers
To this their proper action and their end?
Ask thy own heart; when, at the midnight hour,
Slow through that pensive gloom thy pausing eye,
Led by the glimmering taper, moves around
The reverend volumes of the dead, the songs
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by Fame
For Grecian heroes, where the sovran Power
Of Heaven and Earth surveys the immortal page
Even as a father meditating all

The praises of his son, and bids the rest
Of mankind there the fairest model learn
Of their own nature, and the noblest deeds
Which yet the world hath seen. If then thy soul
Join in the lot of those diviner men;

Say, when the prospect darkens on thy view;
When, sunk by many a wound, heroic states
Mourn in the dust, and tremble at the frown
Of hard Ambition; when the generous band
Of youths who fought for freedom and their sires
Lie side by side in death; when brutal force
Usurps the throne of Justice, turns the pomp
Of guardian power, the majesty of rule,
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe,
To poor dishonest pageants, to adorn
A robber's walk, and glitter in the eyes
Of such as bow the knee; when beauteous works,
&ewards of Virtue, sculptur'd forms which deck'á
With more than human grace the warrior's arch
Or patriot's tomb, now victims to appease
Tyrannic Envy, strew the common path
With awful ruins; when the Muse's haunt,
The marble porch where Wisdom wont to talk
With Socrates or Tully, hears no more,
Save the hoarse jargon of contentious monks,
Or female superstition's midnight prayer;
When ruthless havoc from the hand of Time
Tears the destroying scythe, with surer stroke
To mow the monuments of glory down;
Till Desolation o'er the grass-grown street
Expands her raven wings, and, from the gate
Where senates once the weal of nations plann'd,
Hisseth the gliding snake through hoary weeds,
That clasp the mouldering column: thus when all
The widely mournful scene is fix'd within

Thy throbbing bosom; when the patriot's tear
Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm
In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove
To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow,
Or dash Octavius from the trophied car;
Say, doth thy secret soul repine to taste
The big distress? or wouldst thou then exchange
Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot
Of him who sits amid the gaudy herd
Of silent flatterers bending to his nod,
And o'er them, like a giant, casts his eye,
And says within himself, "I am a king,

And wherefore should the clamorous voice of Woe
Intrude upon mine ear?" The dregs corrupt
Of barbarous ages, that Circæan draught
Of servitude and folly, have not yet,
Bless'd be the eternal ruler of the world!
Yet have not so dishonour'd, so deform'd
The native judgment of the human soul,
Nor so effac'd the image of her sire.

THE

PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION.

BOOK III.

M.DCC.LXX.

WHAT tongue then may explain the various fate Which reigns o'er Earth? or who to mortal eyes Illustrate this perplexing labyrinth

Of joy and woe through which the feet of man
Are doom'd to wander? That eternal mind
From passions, wants, and envy far estrang'd,
Who built the spacious universe, and deck'd
Each part so richly with whate'er pertains
To life, to health, to pleasure; why bade he
The viper Evil, creeping in, pollute
The goodly scene, and with insidious rage,
While the poor inmate looks around and smiles,
Dart her fell sting with poison to his soul?
Hard is the question, and from ancient days
Hath still oppress'd with care the sage's thought;
Hath drawn forth accents from the poet's lyre
Too sad, too deeply plaintive: nor did e'er
Those chiefs of human kind, from whom the light
Of heavenly Truth first gleam'd on barbarous lands,
Forget this dreadful secret, when they told
What wondrous things had to their favour'd eyes
And ears on cloudy mountain been reveal'd,
Or in deep cave by nymph or power divine,
Portentous oft and wild. Yet one I know,
Could I the speech of lawgivers assume,
One old and splendid tale I would record
With which the Muse of Solon in sweet strains
Adorn'd this theme profound, and render'd all
Its darkness, all its terrours, bright as noon,
Or gentle as the golden star of eve.

Who knows not Solon? last, and wisest far,
Of those whom Greece triumphant in the height
Of glory, styl'd her fathers? him whose voice
Through Athens hush'd the storm of civil wrath;
Taught envious Want and cruel Wealth to join
In friendship; and, with sweet compulsion, tam'd
Minerva's eager people to his laws,
Which their own goddess in his breast inspir'd?
'Twas now the time when his heroic task
Seem'd but perform'd in vain: when sooth'd by years

Of flattering service, the fond multitude Hung with their sudden counsels on the breath Of great Pisistratus: that chief renown'd, Whom Hermes and the Idalian queen had train'd Even from his birth to every powerful art Of pleasing and persuading; from whose lips Flow'd eloquence, which, like the vows of love, Could steal away suspicion from the hearts Of all who listen'd. Thus from day to day He won the general suffrage, and beheld Each rival overshadow'd and depress'd Beneath his ampler state: yet oft complain'd, As one less kindly treated, who had hop'd To merit favour, but submits perforce To find another's services preferr'd, Nor yet relaxeth aught of faith or zeal. Then tales were scatter'd of his envious foes, Of snares that watch'd his fame, of daggers aim'd Against his life. At last with trembling limbs, His hair diffus'd and wild, his garments loose, And stain'd with blood from self-inflicted wounds, He burst into the public place, as there, There only, were his refuge; and declar'd In broken words, with sighs of deep regret, The mortal danger he had scarce repell'd. Fir'd with his tragic tale, the indignant crowd, To guard his steps, forthwith a menial band, Array'd beneath his eye for deeds of war, Decree. O still too liberal of their trust, And oft betray'd by over-grateful love, The generous people! Now behold him fenc'd By mercenary weapons, like a king, Forth issuing from the city gate at eve To seek his rural mansion, and with pomp Crowding the public road. The swain stops short, And sighs: the officious townsmen stand at gaze, And, shrinking, give the sullen pageant room. Yet not the less obsequious was his brow; Nor less profuse of courteous words his tongue, Of gracious gifts his hand; the while by stealth, Like a small torrent fed with evening showers, His train increas'd. Till, at that fatal time Just as the public eye, with doubt and shame Startled, began to question what it saw, Swift as the sound of earthquakes rush'd a voice Through Athens, that Pisistratus had fill'd The rocky citadel with hostile arms, Had barr'd the steep ascent, and sate within Amid his hirelings, meditating death To all whose stubborn necks his yoke refus'd. Where then was Solon? After ten long years Of absence, full of haste from foreign shores The sage, the lawgiver, had now arriv'd: Arriv'd, alas! to see that Athens, that Fair temple rais'd by him and sacred call'd To Liberty and Concord, now profan'd

By savage Hate, or sunk into a den

Of slaves, who crouch beneath the master's scourge,
And deprecate his wrath, and court his chains.
Yet did not the wise patriot's grief impede
His virtuous will, nor was his heart inclin'd
One moment with such woman-like distress
To view the transient storms of civil war,
As thence to yield his country and her hopes
To all-devouring bondage. His bright helm,
Ev'n while the traitor's impious act is told,
He buckles on his hoary head: he girds
With mail his stooping breast: the shield, the spear
He snatcheth; and with swift indignant strides
The assembled people seeks: proclaims aloud

It was no time for counsel: in their spears
Lay all their prudence now: the tyrant yet
Was not so firmly seated on his throne,
But that one shock of their united force
Would dash him from the summit of his pride
Headlong and groveling in the dust. What else
Can re-assert the lost Athenian name
So cheaply to the laughter of the world
Betray'd; by guile beneath an infant's faith

So mock'd and scorn'd? Away then: Freedom now
And Safety dwell not but with fame in arms:
Myself will show you where their mansion lies,
And through the walks of Danger or of Death
Conduct you to them. While he spake, through all
Their crowded ranks his quick sagacious eye
He darted; where no cheerful voice was heard
Of social daring; no stretch'd arm was seen
Hastening their common task: but pale mistrust
Wrinkled each brow: they shook their heads, and
down

Their slack hands hung: cold sighs and whisper'd doubts

From breath to breath stole round. The sage mean time

Look'd speechless on, while his big bosom heav'd
Struggling with shame and sorrow: till at last
A tear broke forth; and, "O immortal shades,
O Theseus," he exclaim'd, “O Codrus, where,
Where are ye now? behold for what ye toil'd
Through life! behold for whom ye chose to die!"
No more he added; but with lonely steps,
Weary and slow, his silver beard depress'd,
And his stern eyes bent heedless on the ground,
Back to his silent dwelling he repair'd.
There o'er the gate, his armour, as a man
Whom from the service of the war his chief
Dismisseth after no inglorious toil,

He fix'd in general view. One wishful look
He sent, unconscious, toward the public place
At parting: then beneath his quiet roof
Without a word, without a sigh, retir'd.

Scarce had the morrow's Sun his golden rays
From sweet Hymettus darted o'er the fanes
Of Cecrops to the Salaminian shores,
When, lo! on Solon's threshold met the feet
Of four Athenians by the same sad care
Conducted all: than whom the state beheld
None nobler. First came Megacles, the son
Of great Alemæon, whom the Lydian king,
The mild, unhappy Croesus, in his days
Of glory had with costly gifts adorn'd,
Fair vessels, splendid garments, tinctur'd webs,
And heaps of treasur'd gold beyond the lot
Of many sov'reigns; thus requiting well
That hospitable favour which erewhile
Alemæon to his messengers had shown,
Whom he with offerings worthy of the god
Sent from his throne in Sardis to revere
Apollo's Delphic shrine. With Megacles
Approach'd his son, whom Agarista bore,
The virtuous child of Clisthenes, whose hand
Of Grecian sceptres the most ancient far
In Sicyon sway'd: but greater fame he drew
From arms control'd by justice, from the love
Of the wise Muses, and the unenvied wreath
Which glad Olympia gave. For thither once
His warlike steeds the hero led, and there
Contended through the tumult of the course
With skilful wheels. Then victor at the goal,
Amid the applause, of assembled Greece,

High on his car he stood and wav'd his arm.
Silence ensued! when straight the herald's voice
Was heard, inviting every Grecian youth,
Whom Clisthenes content might call his son,
To visit, ere twice thirty days were pass'd,
The towers of Sicyon. There the chief decreed,
Within the circuit of the following year,
To join at Hymen's altar, hand in hand
With his fair daughter, him among the guests
Whom worthiest he should deem. Forthwith from all
The bounds of Greece the ambitious wooers came!
From rich Hesperea; from the Illyrian shore
Where Epidamnus over Adria's surge
Looks on the setting Sun; from those brave tribes
Chaonian or Molossian whom the race
Of great Achilles governs, glorying still
In Troy o'erthrown; from rough Ætolia, nurse
Of men who first among the Greeks threw off
The yoke of kings, to commerce and to arms
Devoted; from Thessalia's fertile meads,
Where flows Péneus near the lufty walls
Of Cranon old; from strong Eretria, queen
Of all Eubœan cities, who, sublime
On the steep margin of Euripus, views
Across the tide the Marathonian plain,
Not yet the haunt of Glory. Athens too,
Minerva's care, among her graceful sons
Found equal lovers for the princely maid:
Nor was proud Argos wanting; nor the domes
Of sacred Elis; nor the Areadian groves
That overshade Alphéus, echoing oft
Some shepherd's song. But through the illustrious
Was none who might with Megacles compare
In all the honours of unblemish'd youth.

[band

His was the beauteous bride: and now their son
Young Clisthenes, betimes, at Solon's gate
Stood anxions; leaning forward on the arm
Of his great sire, with earnest eyes, that ask'd
When the slow hinge would turn, with restless feet,
And cheeks now pale, now glowing: for his heart
Throbb'd, full of bursting passions, anger, grief
With scorn embitter'd, by the generous boy
Scarce understood, but which, like noble seeds,
Are destin'd for his country and himself,
In riper years to bring forth fruits divine
Of liberty and glory. Next appear'd
Two brave companions, whom one mother bore
To different lords; but whom the better ties
Of firm esteem and friendship rendered more
Than brothers: first Miltiades, who drew
From godlike Facus his ancient line;
That Eacus whose unimpeach'd renown
For sanctity and justice won the lyre
Of elder bards to celebrate him thron'd
In Hades o'er the dead, where his decrees
The guilty soul within the burning gates
Of Tartarus compel, or send the good
To inhabit with eternal health and peace
The vallies of Elysium. From a stem
So sacred, ne'er could worthier scion spring
Than this Miltiades; whose aid erelong
The chiefs of Thrace, already on their ways
Sent by the inspir'd foreknowing maid who sits
Upon the Delphic tripod, shall implore
To wield their sceptre, and the rural wealth
Of fruitful Chersonesus to protect
With arms and laws. But, nothing careful now,
Save for his injur'd country, here he stands
In deep solicitude with Cymon join'd :
Unconscious both what widely different lots