English poem
To M.C. Of Athens
by John L. Stoddard (1850–1931)
Son of the race that gave the world its best, Of ancient Greece a noble type thou art,-- An Attic spirit transferred to the West, The blood of Hellas pulsing at thy heart; In homage to thyself and to thy land, Accept, I pray, these simple lines of mine; To one I offer both my heart and hand, Before the other kneel, as at a shrine.
TO J.B.
Within an Old World, classic vase She blossomed like a flower, And made Italian summer days Seem fleeting as an hour; Then left the antique vase in gloom,-- Yet o'er its edges climb Some petals, with a sweet perfume That triumphs over time.
TO M.P.
The Critic grieves at Virtue's loss, And rails at Evil's stride, But Love still holds aloft the Cross, And shows the Crucified.
One, safe in a secure retreat, Disdains the maddened throng; The other braves the seething street, And strives to right the wrong.
Self shudders at the angry waves, And dreams of what should be, But Love the sinking sinner saves, And stills the stormy sea.