Iii[Ca]

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 sublime 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 fearful 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 the 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!