Nor less the homage that was seen to wait With self-sufficing solitude, But with majestic lowliness endued, III. Five thousand warriors-O 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 On tables set, as if for rites divine ; And, as the great Deliverer marches by, He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown; nd flowers are on his person thrown In boundless prodigality; Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, As if a very Deity he were ! IV. 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 Unjustly shed, though for the public good. Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 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 fearful start! Anon his lifted eyes Saw at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! And fiercely swept the marble floor, Like Auster whirling to and fro, His force on Caspian foam to try; V. So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, No pause admitted, no design avowed! 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!" VI. But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; But should she labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; Whence angry perturbations,—and that look Which no philosophy can brook! VII. Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built 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, Shudder'd the walls-the marble city wept- 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: "Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends.” CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. WHO is the happy Warrior? Who is he -It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought In face of these doth exercise a power So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, |