506 THE ACROPOLIS. 



Society of Education has determined upon addressing- itself. Let it 

 awaken that, enlighten that, make that sensible of the not-to-be-re- 

 sisted influence of education, of the extent to which the happiness 

 and real greatness of the nation may be increased by its agency ; 

 and then and only then can it hope to see some sound and comprehen- 

 sive system adopted which shall impart happiness, intelligence, and 

 a healthy moral tone to the English nation. Most heartily do we 

 de-ire the success of the Society; and here let us urge all those who 

 have an anxious care for the future welfare of mankind, to come for- 

 ward in numbers and in strength, with information and with funds to 

 its support. From the north, from the south, from the east, and the 

 west let them pour in and convince the government that the nation is 

 not indifferent to the cause of education ; nor let religious or political 

 differences deter them, the Society has determined to keep aloof 

 from all such considerations, and to follow out its one great question 

 proposed ED u c A T i ON. 



THE ACROPOLIS. 



*Tis hallow'd ground. On yonder lofty hill 



Which proudly rears its crest above the plain, 

 Whence, down the cleft, descends the gurgling rill, 

 Dwells one whose fame has travers'd every main, 

 And echoed o'er each rugged shore. Thy fane, 

 Bright Pallas, propp'd by fairy art, defies 



The ravages of time. Hoar age hath ta'en 

 In his fell grip gay palaces. Thine rise, 

 Refreshed by cooling gales, when every other dies. 



Where now the incense glowing at thy shrine 



Great goddess, offspring of high-thundering Jove ? 

 Off 'rings and victims are no longer thine, 



Nor high-borne banners round thy temple move 

 In victory's hour. Their warp so thinly wove 

 Hath perish'd. List ! the impetuous warrior's cry 

 Resounds no longer from the dusky grove 

 Where th' academic throng oft lov'd to pry 

 In mystic lore, and hear the airy harmony. 



The olden race is run- thy walls remain 

 Alone, and sighing to the winter's blast,- 

 While aged ivy wreathes his verdant chain 

 Silent memorial of thy greatness past ! 



Around thy marble columns richly cast. 

 Sole birth of noble Jove ! though temples fall, 



Mould'ring to dust, thy fane shall ever last ; 

 Oblivion thy grandeur ne'er shall pall, 

 And when thou perishest, at last, shall perish all. 



