Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares grey Mara

thon.

The sun-the soil-but not the slave the same,
Unchang'd in all except its foreign lord,

Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame,
The battle-field-where Persia's victim horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hella's sword,
As on the morn to distant glory dear,
When Marathon became a magic word-
Which utter'd-to the hero's eye appear

The camp-the host the fight-the conqueror's career!

The flying Mede-his shaftless broken bow,
The fiery Greek-his red pursuing spear,
Mountains above-earth's-ocean's plain below,
Death in the front-destruction in the rear!
Such was the scene-what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground
Recording freedom's smile and Asia's tear ?-
The rifled urn-the violated mound-

The dust-thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around.

Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past,
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast,
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore;
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young!
Which sages venerate and bards adore,
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore.

The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth;
He that is lonely hither let him roam,

And gaze complacent on congenial earth.

G

Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth; But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, And scarce regret the region of his birth, When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian

died.

BYRON.

MARLBOROUGH. (Character of)

'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was
prov'd,

That, in the shock of charging hosts unmov'd,
Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,

Examin'd all the dreadful scenes of war:

In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
Inspir'd repuls'd battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel by divine command
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And, pleas'd th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
ADDISON.

MAXIMS. (Abuse of)

Yes, you despise the man to books confin'd,
Who from his study rails at human kind;
Though what he learns he speaks, and may advance
Some gen'ral maxims, or be right by chance.
The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,

That from his cage, cries cuckold, whore, and knave,
Though many a passenger he rightly call,
You hold him no philosopher at all.

POPE

MEDIUM. (Not easily hit)

And first, let no man charge me, that I mean To close in sable ev'ry social scene, And give good company a face severe, As if they met around a father's bier; For tell some men, that pleasure all their bent, And laughter all their work, is life mispent, Their wisdom bursts into this sage reply,Then mirth is sin, and we should always cry. To find the medium asks some share of wit, And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.

Hail, divinest melancholy !
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight;
And therefore to our weaker view
O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue..
Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
And sable stole of Cyprus lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till

With a sad leaden downward cast

Thou fix them on the earth as fast:
And join with thee calm peace and quiet,
Spare fast, that oft with Gods doth diet,

COWPER.

And hears the Muses in a ring

Ay round about Jove's altar sing:
And add to these retired leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!

Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
I woo, to hear thy even-song,
And, missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heaven's wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud,
Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off curfew sound
Over some wide water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,
Of pine, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honied thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring.
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep;

And let some strange, mysterious dream
Wave at his wings an airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim, religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voic'd quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstacies,

And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that heaven doth show,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew;
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.

MILTON.

MELANCHOLY. (Gestures that betoken)

Look where he comes in this embow'r'd alcove Stand close conceal'd, and see a statue move: Lips busy, and eyes fix'd, foot falling slow,

Arms hanging idly down, hands clasp'd below,