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In every Roman, through all turns of fate,
Is Roman dignity nviolate;

Spirit in him pre-eminent; who guides,
Supports, adorns, and over all presides;
Distinguished only by inherent state
From honoured instruments that round
him wait;

Rise as he may, his grandeur scorns the

test

Of outward symbol, nor will deign to rest
On aught by which another is deprest.*
Alas! that one thus disciplined could toil
To enslave whole nations on their native
soil;

So emulous of Macedonian fame,

That, when his age was measured with his aim,

He drooped, 'mid else unclouded victories, And turned his eagles back with deepdrawn sighs;

Oh, weakness of the great! Oh, folly of the wise!

* See Forsyth,

Where now the haughty empire that was spread

With such fond hope? her very speech is dead;

Yet glorious art the sweep of time defies, And Trajan still, through various enterprise,

Mounts, in this fine illusion, toward the
skies:

Still are we present with the imperial chief,
Nor cease to gaze upon the bold relief
Till Rome, to silent marble unconfined,
Becomes with all her years a vision of the
mind.

DION.

(SEE PLUTARCH.)

FAIR is the swan, whose majesty, pre-
vailing

O'er breezeless water, on Locarno's lake,
Bears him on while proudly sailing
He leaves behind a moon-illumined wake ;
Behold! the mantling spirit of reserve
Fashions his neck into a goodly curve;
An arch thrown back between luxuriant
wings

Of whitest garniture, like fir-tree boughs
To which on some unruffled morning
clings

A flaky weight of winter's purest snows!
Behold!-as with a gushing impulse
heaves

That downy prow, and softly cleaves
The mirror of the crystal flood,
Vanish inverted hill, and shadowy wood,
And pendant rocks, where'er, in gliding

state,

Winds the mute creature without visible
mate

Or rival, save the queen of night
Showering down a silver light,
From heaven, upon her chosen favourite!

So pure, so bright, so fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a natural grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.

Nor less the homage that was seen to
wait

On Dion's virtues, when the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere ;-

That he, not too elate

With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,

Might in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse fate.

Five thousand warriors-Oh, the rapturous day!

Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield,

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,

To Syracuse advance in bright array.
Who leads them on?-The anxious people

see

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad!
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or
fear

The gazers feel; and rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are entered, on each
hand,

Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine

In seemly order stand,
On tables set, as if for rites divine ;—
And, as the great deliverer marches by,

He looks on festal ground with fruits
bestrown;

And flowers are on his person thrown
In boundless prodigality;

Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer,

Invoking Dion's tutelary care,
As if a very Deity he were !

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and

mourn

Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads

Your once-sweet memory, studious walks and shades!

For him who to divinity aspired,

Not on the breath of popular applause,
But through dependence on the sacred laws
Framed in the schools where wisdom dwelt
retired,

Intent to trace the ideal path of right
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway
paved with stars)

Which Dion learned to measure with delight;

But he hath overleaped the eternal bars; And, following guides whose craft holds

no consent

With aught that breathes the ethereal element,

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,

Unjustly shed, though for the public good. Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;
And oft his cogitations sink as low
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go;
But whence that sudden check? that fear-
ful start!

He hears an uncouth sound-
Anon his lifted eyes

Saw at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
A shape of more than mortal size
And hideous aspect, stalking round and
round;

A woman's garb that phantom wore,
And fiercely swept the marble floor,-
Like Auster whirling to and fro,

His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
That skins the plains of Thessaly,
Or when aloft on Mænalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping The sullen spectre to her purpose bowed,

Sweeping-vehemently sweepingNo pause admitted, no design avowed? "Avaunt, inexplicable guest !-avaunt!" Exclaimed the chieftain-" Let me rather

see

The coronal that coiling vipers make; The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,

And the long train of doleful pageantry Which they behold, whom vengeful furies haunt :

Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,

Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!"

But shapes that come not at an earthly call,

Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid
Once raised, remains aghast and will not
fall!

Ye gods, thought he, that servile implement
Obeys a mystical intent !

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Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt,

Pursue thee with their deadly aim!,
O matchless perfidy! portentous lust
Of monstrous crime that horror-striking
blade,

Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid
The noble Syracusan low in dust !...
Shudder the walls--the marble city wept-
And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;
But in calm peace the appointed victim
slept,

As he had fallen in magnanimity;

Of spirit too capacious to require That destiny her course should change; too just

To his own native greatness to desire That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust.

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Released from life and cares of princely state,

He left this moral grafted on his fate

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Retirement then might hourly look
Upon a soothing scene,
Age steal to his allotted nook,
Contented and serene;

With heart as calm as lakes that sleep,
In frosty moonlight glistening;
Or mountain rivers, where they creep
Along a channel smooth and deep,
To their own far-off murmurs listening.

ODE TO DUTY.

STERN daughter of the voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm'st the weary strife of frail
humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth;'
Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not :
Long may the kindly impulse last!

But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast!

Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet find that other strength, according to
their need.

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296

Poems Referring to the Period of Old Age.

THE OLD CUMBERLAND BEGGAR.

The class of beggars, to which the old man here described belongs, will probably soon be extinct. It consisted of poor, and, mostly, old and infirm persons, who confined themselves to a stated round in their neighbourhood, and had certain fixed days, on which, at different houses, they regularly received alms, sometimes in money, but mostly in provisions.

I SAW an aged beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry

Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they

Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag

All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,

Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude :
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds,
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary man,
So helpless in appearance, that for him
The sauntering horseman-traveller does not throw
With careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops, that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old man's hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged beggar with a look
Sidelong-and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post boy, when his rattling wheels o'ertake
The aged beggar in the woody lane,

Shouts to him from behind; and, if thus warned
The old man does not change his course, the boy

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