For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like demigods are strong
On whom the muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptest framed
To enervate and defile.

Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain's earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn !

Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
'Woe! woe to tyrants !' from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.

And not unhallowed was the page
By winged love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own Æolian lute.

O ye who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unrol
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.

That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved shall we enfold?
Can haughty time be just!

THE PILLAR OF TRAJAN. Where towers are crushed, and unforbidden weeds O'er mutilated arches shed their seeds; And temples, doomed to milder change, unfold A new magnificence that vies with old; Firm in its pristine majesty hath stood A votive column, spared by fire and flood ;And, though the passions of man's fretful race Have never ceased to eddy round its base, Not injured more by touch of meddling hands Than a lone obelisk, mid Nubian sands, Or aught in Syrian deserts left to save From death the memory of the good and brave. Historic figures round the shaft embossed Ascend, with lineaments in air not lost: Still as he turns, the charmed spectator sees Group winding after group with dreamlike ease; Triumphs in sunbright gratitude displayed, Or softly stealing into modest shade. So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine Some lofty elm-tree, mounts the daring vine; The woodbine so, with spiral grace, and breathes Wide-spreading odours from her flowery wreaths.

Borne by the muse from rills in shepherd's ears Murmuring but one smooth story for all years, I gladly commune with the mind and heart Of him who thus survives by classic art,

His actions witness, venerate his mien,
And study Trajan as by Pliny seen;
Behold how fought the chief whose conquering sword
Stretched far as earth might own a single lord;
In the delight of moral prudence schooled,
How feelingly at home the sovereign ruled;
Best of the good-in pagan faith allied
To more than man by virtue deified.

Memorial pillar! mid the wrecks of time Preserve thy charge with confidence sublimeThe exultations, pomps, and cares of Rome, Whence half the breathing world received its doom; Things that recoil from language; that, if shown By apter pencil, from the light had flown. A pontiff, Trajan here the gods implores, There greets an embassy from Indian shores; Lo! he harangues his cohorts—there the storm Of battle meets him in authentic form! Unharnessed, naked, troops of Moorish horse Sweep to the charge ; more high, the Dacian force. To hoof and finger mailed ;-yet, high or low, None bleed and none lie prostrate but the foe; In every Roman, through all turns of fate, Is Roman dignity inviolate; 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 depressed. 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 deep-drawn sighs;
Oh, weakness of the great! Oh, folly of the wise !
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. Farr is the swan, whose majesty, prevailing 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 faky 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, faz-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,