CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 183 



Yet still my native spot is dear, 



When memory bids it rise ; 

 Still hallowed with a heartfelt tear, 



Still chronicled with sighs. 



LORD DOVER. 



THE PEN. 



FROM THE GREEK. 



I was an useless thing, a lonely reed ! 



No blossom hung its beauty on the weed. 



Alike in summer's sun and winter's gloom 5 



I sigh'd no fragrance, and I bore no bloom. 



No cluster wreath' d me, day and night I pined 



On the wild moor, and wither'd in the wind. 



At length a wanderer found me. From my side 



He smooth' d the pale decaying leaves, and dyed 



My lips in Helicon ! From that high hour 



I SPOKE ! My words were flame and living power! 



And there was sweetness round me, never fell 



Eve's sweeter dews upon the lily's bell. 



I shone '.night died ! as if a trumpet call'd, 



Man's spirit rose, pure, fiery, disenthrall' d ! 



Tyrant's of Earth ; ye saw your light decline, 



When I stood forth, a wonder and a sign. 



To me, the iron sceptre was a wand, 



The roar of nations peal'd at my command ; 



To me the dungeon, sword, and scourge, were vain, 



I smote the smiter, and I broke the chain : 



Or towering o'er them all, without a plume, 



I pierced the purple air, the tempest's gloom; 



Till burst th' Olympian splendours on my eye, 



Stars, temples, thrones, and gods, Infinity ! 



CROLY. 



