370 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1814. 



' While gasp by gasp he faulters forth his soul, 

 ' Ours with one pang— one bound — escapes controul. 

 ' His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 

 ♦ And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : 

 ' Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 

 ' When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 

 For us, even banquets fond regret supply 

 In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 

 And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 

 When those who win at length divide the prey, 

 And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 

 How had the brave who fell exulted now !" 



ATHENIAN PROSPECT. 



FBOM THE SAME. 



Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be rua. 

 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 

 Not as in Northern climes obscurely bright. 

 But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 

 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 

 Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows. 

 On old iEgina's rock, and Idra's isle. 

 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 

 O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine. 

 Though there his altars are no more divine. 

 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 

 Thy glorious gulph, unconqner'd Salamis ! 

 Their azure arches through the long expanse 

 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance. 

 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 

 Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven ; 

 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep. 

 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 



On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 

 When — Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 

 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 

 That closed their murder'd sage's latest.day I 

 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 

 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 

 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 

 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 

 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 

 The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before. 

 But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head. 

 The cup of woe was quaft'd — the spirit fled ; 



