BOOK III. 1770.

What tongue then may explain the various fate

Which reigns o'er earth? or who to mortal eyes

Illustrate this perplexing labyrinth

Of joy and woe, through which the feet of man

Are doom'd to wander? That Eternal Mind

From passions, wants, and envy far estranged,

Who built the spacious universe, and deck'd

Each part so richly with whate'er pertains

To life, to health, to pleasure, why bade he

The viper Evil, creeping in, pollute

The goodly scene, and with insidious rage,

While the poor inmate looks around and smiles

Dart her fell sting with poison to his soul?

Hard is the question, and from ancient days

Hath still oppress'd with care the sage's thought;

Hath drawn forth accents from the poet's lyre

Too sad, too deeply plaintive; nor did e'er

Those chiefs of human kind, from whom the light

Of heavenly truth first gleam'd on barbarous lands,

Forget this dreadful secret when they told

What wondrous things had to their favour'd eyes

And ears on cloudy mountain been reveal'd,

Or in deep cave by nymph or power divine,

Portentous oft, and wild. Yet one I know.

Could I the speech of lawgivers assume,

One old and splendid tale I would record,

With which the Muse of Solon in sweet strains

Adorn'd this theme profound, and render'd all

Its darkness, all its terrors, bright as noon,

Or gentle as the golden star of eve.

Who knows not Solon,— last, and wisest far,

Of those whom Greece, triumphant in the height

Of glory, styled her fathers,— him whose voice

Through Athens hush'd the storm of civil wrath;

Taught envious Want and cruel Wealth to join

In friendship; and, with sweet compulsion, tamed

Minerva's eager people to his laws,

Which their own goddess in his breast inspired?

‘ Twas now the time when his heroic task

Seem'd but perform'd in vain; when, soothed by years

Of flattering service, the fond multitude

Hung with their sudden counsels on the breath

Of great Pisistratus, that chief renown'd,

Whom Hermes and the Idalian queen had train'd,

Even from his birth, to every powerful art

Of pleasing and persuading; from whose lips

Flow'd eloquence which, like the vows of love,

Could steal away suspicion from the hearts

Of all who listen'd. Thus from day to day

He won the general suffrage, and beheld

Each rival overshadow'd and depress'd

Beneath his ampler state; yet oft complain'd,

As one less kindly treated, who had hoped

To merit favour, but submits perforce

To find another's services preferr'd,

Nor yet relaxeth aught of faith or zeal.

Then tales were scatter'd of his envious foes,

Of snares that watch'd his fame, of daggers aim'd

Against his life. At last, with trembling limbs,

His hair diffused and wild, his garments loose,

And stain'd with blood from self-inflicted wounds,

He burst into the public place, as there,

There only, were his refuge; and declared

In broken words, with sighs of deep regret,

The mortal danger he had scarce repell'd.

Fired with his tragic tale, the indignant crowd,

To guard his steps, forthwith a menial band,

Array'd beneath his eye for deeds of war,

Decree. Oh! still too liberal of their trust,

And oft betray'd by over-grateful love,

The generous people! Now behold him fenced

By mercenary weapons, like a king,

Forth issuing from the city-gate at eve

To seek his rural mansion, and with pomp

Crowding the public road. The swain stops short,

And sighs; the officious townsmen stand at gaze,

And shrinking give the sullen pageant room.

Yet not the less obsequious was his brow;

Nor less profuse of courteous words his tongue,

Of gracious gifts his hand; the while by stealth,

Like a small torrent fed with evening showers,

His train increased; till, at that fatal time

Just as the public eye, with doubt and shame

Startled, began to question what it saw,

Swift as the sound of earthquakes rush'd a voice

Through Athens, that Pisistratus had fill'd

The rocky citadel with hostile arms,

Had barr'd the steep ascent, and sate within

Amid his hirelings, meditating death

To all whose stubborn necks his yoke refused.

Where then was Solon? After ten long years

Of absence, full of haste from foreign shores,

The sage, the lawgiver had now arrived:

Arrived, alas! to see that Athens, that

Fair temple raised by him and sacred call'd

To Liberty and Concord, now profaned

By savage hate, or sunk into a den

Of slaves who crouch beneath the master's scourge,

And deprecate his wrath, and court his chains.

Yet did not the wise patriot's grief impede

His virtuous will, nor was his heart inclined

One moment with such woman-like distress

To view the transient storms of civil war,

As thence to yield his country and her hopes

To all-devouring bondage. His bright helm,

Even while the traitor's impious act is told,

He buckles on his hoary head; he girds

With mail his stooping breast; the shield, the spear

He snatcheth; and with swift indignant strides

The assembled people seeks; proclaims aloud

It was no time for counsel; in their spears

Lay all their prudence now; the tyrant yet

Was not so firmly seated on his throne,

But that one shock of their united force

Would dash him from the summit of his pride,

Headlong and grovelling in the dust.‘ What else

Can reassert the lost Athenian name,

So cheaply to the laughter of the world

Betray'd; by guile beneath an infant's faith

So mock'd and scorn'd? Away, then: Freedom now

And Safety dwell not but with Fame in arms;

Myself will shew you where their mansion lies,

And through the walks of Danger or of Death

Conduct you to them.’ — While he spake, through all

Their crowded ranks his quick sagacious eye

He darted; where no cheerful voice was heard

Of social daring; no stretch'd arm was seen

Hastening their common task: but pale mistrust

Wrinkled each brow; they shook their head, and down

Their slack hands hung; cold sighs and whisper'd doubts

From breath to breath stole round. The sage meantime

Look'd speechless on, while his big bosom heaved,

Struggling with shame and sorrow, till at last

A tear broke forth; and,‘ O immortal shades,

O Theseus,’ he exclaim'd,‘ O Codrus, where,

Where are ye now behold for what ye toil'd

Through life! behold for whom ye chose to die!’

No more he added; but with lonely steps

Weary and slow, his silver beard depress'd,

And his stern eyes bent heedless on the ground,

Back to his silent dwelling he repair'd.

There o'er the gate, his armour, as a man

Whom from the service of the war his chief

Dismisseth after no inglorious toil,

He fix'd in general view. One wishful look

He sent, unconscious, toward the public place

At parting; then beneath his quiet roof

Without a word, without a sigh, retired.

Scarce had the morrow's sun his golden rays

From sweet Hymettus darted o'er the fanes

Of Cecrops to the Salaminian shores,

When, lo, on Solon's threshold met the feet

Of four Athenians, by the same sad care

Conducted all, than whom the state beheld

None nobler. First came Megacles, the son

Of great Alcmaeon, whom the Lydian king,

The mild, unhappy Croesus, in his days

Of glory had with costly gifts adorn'd,

Fair vessels, splendid garments, tinctured webs

And heaps of treasured gold, beyond the lot

Of many sovereigns; thus requiting well

That hospitable favour which erewhile

Alcmaeon to his messengers had shown,

Whom he, with offerings worthy of the god,

Sent from his throne in Sardis, to revere

Apollo's Delphic shrine. With Megacles

Approach'd his son, whom Agarista bore,

The virtuous child of Clistheues, whose hand

Of Grecian sceptres the most ancient far

In Sicyon sway'd: but greater fame he drew

From arms controll'd by justice, from the love

Of the wise Muses, and the unenvied wreath

Which glad Olympia gave. For thither once

His warlike steeds the hero led, and there

Contended through the tumult of the course

With skilful wheels. Then victor at the goal,

Amid the applauses of assembled Greece,

High on his car he stood and waved his arm.

Silence ensued: when straight the herald's voice

Was heard, inviting every Grecian youth,

Whom Clisthenes content might call his son,

To visit, ere twice thirty days were pass'd,

The towers of Sicyon. There the chief decreed,

Within the circuit of the following year,

To join at Hymen's altar, hand in hand

With his fair daughter, him among the guests

Whom worthiest he should deem. Forthwith from all

The bounds of Greece the ambitious wooers came:

From rich Hesperia; from the Illyrian shore,

Where Epidamnus over Adria's surge

Looks on the setting sun; from those brave tribes

Chaonian or Molossian, whom the race

Of great Achilles governs, glorying still

In Troy o'erthrown; from rough Aetolia, nurse

Of men who first among the Greeks threw off

The yoke of kings, to commerce and to arms

Devoted; from Thessalia's fertile meads,

Where flows Penéus near the lofty walls

Of Cranon old; from strong Eretria, queen

Of all Euboean cities, who, sublime

On the steep margin of Euripus, views

Across the tide the Marathonian plain,

Not yet the haunt of glory. Athens too,

Minerva's care, among her graceful sons

Found equal lovers for the princely maid:

Nor was proud Argos wanting; nor the domes

Of sacred Elis; nor the Arcadian groves

That overshade Alpheus, echoing oft

Some shepherd's song. But through the illustrious band

Was none who might with Megacles compare

In all the honours of unblemish'd youth.

His was the beauteous bride; and now their son,

Young Clisthenes, betimes, at Solon's gate

Stood anxious; leaning forward on the arm

Of his great sire, with earnest eyes that ask'd

When the slow hinge would turn, with restless feet,

And cheeks now pale, now glowing; for his heart

Throbb'd full of bursting passions, anger, grief

With scorn imbitter'd, by the generous boy

Scarce understood, but which, like noble seeds,

Are destined for his country and himself

In riper years to bring forth fruits divine

Of liberty and glory. Next appear'd

Two brave companions, whom one mother bore

To different lords; but whom the better ties

Of firm esteem and friendship render'd more

Than brothers: first Miltiades, who drew

From godlike Æacus his ancient line;

That Æacus whose unimpeach'd renown

For sanctity and justice won the lyre

Of elder bards to celebrate him throned

In Hades o'er the dead, where his decrees

The guilty soul within the burning gates

Of Tartarus compel, or send the good

To inhabit with eternal health and peace

The valleys of Elysium. From a stem

So sacred, ne'er could worthier scion spring

Than this Miltiades; whose aid ere long

The chiefs of Thrace, already on their ways,

Sent by the inspired foreknowing maid who sits

Upon the Delphic tripod, shall implore

To wield their sceptre, and the rural wealth

Of fruitful Chersonesus to protect

With arms and laws. But, nothing careful now

Save for his injured country, here he stands

In deep solicitude with Cimon join'd:

Unconscious both what widely different lots

Await them, taught by nature as they are

To know one common good, one common ill.

For Cimon, not his valour, not his birth

Derived from Codrus, not a thousand gifts

Dealt round him with a wise, benignant hand;

No, not the Olympic olive, by himself

From his own brow transferr'd to soothe the mind

Of this Pisistratus, can long preserve

From the fell envy of the tyrant's sons,

And their assassin dagger. But if death

Obscure upon his gentle steps attend,

Yet fate an ample recompense prepares

In his victorious son, that other great

Miltiades, who o'er the very throne

Of Glory shall with Time's assiduous hand

In adamantine characters engrave

The name of Athens; and, by Freedom arm'd

‘ Gainst the gigantic pride of Asia's king,

Shall all the achievements of the heroes old

Surmount, of Hercules, of all who sail'd

From Thessaly with Jason, all who fought

For empire or for fame at Thebes or Troy.

Such were the patriots who within the porch

Of Solon had assembled. But the gate

Now opens, and across the ample floor

Straight they proceed into an open space

Bright with the beams of morn: a verdant spot,

Where stands a rural altar, piled with sods

Cut from the grassy turf and girt with wreaths,

Of branching palm. Here Solon's self they found

Clad in a robe of purple pure, and deck'd

With leaves of olive on his reverend brow.

He bow'd before the altar, and o'er cakes

Of barley from two earthen vessels pour'd

Of honey and of milk a plenteous stream;

Calling meantime the Muses to accept

His simple offering, by no victim tinged

With blood, nor sullied by destroying fire,

But such as for himself Apollo claims

In his own Delos, where his favourite haunt

Is thence the Altar of the Pious named.

Unseen the guests drew near, and silent view'd

That worship; till the hero-priest his eye

Turn'd toward a seat on which prepared there lay

A branch of laurel. Then his friends confess'd

Before him stood. Backward his step he drew,

As loath that care or tumult should approach

Those early rites divine; but soon their looks,

So anxious, and their hands, held forth with such

Desponding gesture, bring him on perforce

To speak to their affliction.‘ Are ye come,’

He cried,‘ to mourn with me this common shame?

Or ask ye some new effort which may break

Our fetters? Know then, of the public cause

Not for yon traitor's cunning or his might

Do I despair; nor could I wish from Jove

Aught dearer, than at this late hour of life,

As once by laws, so now by strenuous arms,

From impious violation to assert

The rights our fathers left us. But, alas!

What arms? or who shall wield them? Ye beheld

The Athenian people. Many bitter days

Must pass, and many wounds from cruel pride

Be felt, ere yet their partial hearts find room

For just resentment, or their hands indure

To smite this tyrant brood, so near to all

Their hopes, so oft admired, so long beloved.

That time will come, however. Be it yours

To watch its fair approach, and urge it on

With honest prudence; me it ill beseems

Again to supplicate the unwilling crowd

To rescue from a vile deceiver's hold

That envied power, which once with eager zeal

They offer'd to myself; nor can I plunge

In counsels deep and various, nor prepare

For distant wars, thus faltering as I tread

On life's last verge, ere long to join the shades

Of Minos and Lycurgus. But behold

What care employs me now. My vows I pay

To the sweet Muses, teachers of my youth

And solace of my age. If right I deem

Of the still voice that whispers at my heart,

The immortal sisters have not quite withdrawn

Their old harmonious influence. Let your tongues

With sacred silence favour what I speak,

And haply shall my faithful lips be taught

To unfold celestial counsels, which may arm,

As with impenetrable steel your breasts,

For the long strife before you, and repel

The darts of adverse fate.’ — He said, and snatch'd

The laurel bough, and sate in silence down,

Fix'd, wrapp'd in solemn musing, full before

The sun, who now from all his radiant orb

Drove the gray clouds, and pour'd his genial light

Upon the breast of Solon. Solon raised

Aloft the leafy rod, and thus began:—

‘ Ye beauteous offspring of Olympian Jove

And Memory divine, Pierian maids,

Hear me, propitious. In the morn of life,

When hope shone bright and all the prospect smiled,

To your sequester'd mansion oft my steps

Were turn'd, O Muses, and within your gate

My offerings paid. Ye taught me then with strains

Of flowing harmony to soften war's

Dire voice, or in fair colours, that might charm

The public eye, to clothe the form austere

Of civil counsel. Now my feeble age,

Neglected, and supplanted of the hope

On which it lean'd, yet sinks not, but to you,

To your mild wisdom flies, refuge beloved

Of solitude and silence. Ye can teach

The visions of my bed whate'er the gods

In the rude ages of the world inspired,

Or the first heroes acted; ye can make

The morning light more gladsome to my sense

Than ever it appear'd to active youth

Pursuing careless pleasure; ye can give

To this long leisure, these unheeded hours,

A labour as sublime, as when the sons

Of Athens throng'd and speechless round me stood,

To hear pronounced for all their future deeds

The bounds of right and wrong. Celestial powers!

I feel that ye are near me: and behold,

To meet your energy divine, I bring

A high and sacred theme; not less than those

Which to the eternal custody of Fame

Your lips intrusted, when of old ye deign'd

With Orpheus or with Homer to frequent

The groves of Hæmus or the Chian shore.

‘ Ye know, harmonious maids, ( for what of all

My various life was e'er from you estranged? )

Oft hath my solitary song to you

Reveal'd that duteous pride which turn'd my steps

To willing exile; earnest to withdraw

From envy and the disappointed thirst

Of lucre, lest the bold familiar strife,

Which in the eye of Athens they upheld

Against her legislator, should impair

With trivial doubt the reverence of his laws.

To Egypt therefore through the Ægean isles

My course I steer'd, and by the banks of Nile

Dwelt in Canopus. Thence the hallow'd domes

Of Sals, and the rites to Isis paid,

I sought, and in her temple's silent courts,

Through many changing moons, attentive heard

The venerable Sonchis, while his tongue

At morn or midnight the deep story told

Of her who represents whate'er has been,

Or is, or shall be; whose mysterious veil

No mortal hand hath ever yet removed.

By him exhorted, southward to the walls

Of On I pass'd, the city of the sun,

The ever-youthful god. Twas there, amid

His priests and sages, who the livelong night

Watch the dread movements of the starry sphere,

Or who in wondrous fables half disclose

The secrets of the elements,‘ twas there

That great Paenophis taught my raptured ears

The fame of old Atlantis, of her chiefs,

And her pure laws, the first which earth obey'd.

Deep in my bosom sunk the noble tale;

And often, while I listen'd, did my mind

Foretell with what delight her own free lyre

Should sometime for an Attic audience raise

Anew that lofty scene, and from their tombs

Call forth those ancient demigods, to speak

Of Justice and the hidden Providence

That walks among mankind. But yet meantime

The mystic pomp of Ammon's gloomy sons

Became less pleasing. With contempt I gazed

On that tame garb and those unvarying paths,

To which the double yoke of king and priest

Had cramp'd the sullen race. At last, with hymns

Invoking our own Pallas and the gods

Of cheerful Greece, a glad farewell I gave

To Egypt, and before the southern wind

Spread my full sails. What climes I then survey'd,

What fortunes I encounter'd in the realm

Of Croesus or upon the Cyprian shore,

The Muse, who prompts my bosom, doth not now

Consent that I reveal. But when at length

Ten times the sun returning from the south

Had strow'd with flowers the verdant earth, and fill'd

The groves with music, pleased I then beheld

The term of those long errors drawing nigh.

Nor yet, I said, will I sit down within

The walls of Athens, till my feet have trod

The Cretan soil, have pierced those reverend haunts

Whence Law and Civil Concord issued forth

As from their ancient home, and still to Greece

Their wisest, loftiest discipline proclaim.

Straight where Amnisus, mart of wealthy ships,

Appears beneath famed Cnossus and her towers,

Like the fair handmaid of a stately queen,

I check'd my prow, and thence with eager steps

The city of Minos enter'd. O ye gods,

Who taught the leaders of the simpler time

By written words to curb the untoward will

Of mortals, how within that generous isle

Have ye the triumphs of your power display'd

Munificent! Those splendid merchants, lords

Of traffic and the sea, with what delight

I saw them, at their public meal, like sons

Of the same household, join the plainer sort

Whose wealth was only freedom! whence to these

Vile envy, and to those fantastic pride,

Alike was strange; but noble concord still

Cherish'd the strength untamed, the rustic faith,

Of their first fathers. Then the growing race,

How pleasing to behold them in their schools,

Their sports, their labours, ever placed within,

O shade of Minos! thy controlling eye.

Here was a docile band in tuneful tones

Thy laws pronouncing, or with lofty hymns

Praising the bounteous gods, or, to preserve

Their country's heroes from oblivious night,

Resounding what the Muse inspired of old;

There, on the verge of manhood, others met,

In heavy armour through the heats of noon

To march, the rugged mountain's height to climb

With measured swiftness, from the hard-bent bow

To send resistless arrows to their mark,

Or for the fame of prowess to contend,

Now wrestling, now with fists and staves opposed,

Now with the biting falchion, and the fence

Of brazen shields; while still the warbling flute

Presided o'er the combat, breathing strains

Grave, solemn, soft; and changing headlong spite

To thoughtful resolution cool and clear.

Such I beheld those islanders renown'd,

So tutor'd from their birth to meet in war

Each bold invader, and in peace to guard

That living flame of reverence for their laws,

Which nor the storms of fortune, nor the flood

Of foreign wealth diffused o'er all the land,

Could quench or slacken. First of human names

In every Cretan's heart was Minos still;

And holiest far, of what the sun surveys

Through his whole course, were those primeval seats

Which with religious footsteps he had taught

Their sires to approach; the wild Dictaean cave

Where Jove was born: the ever verdant meads

Of Ida, and the spacious grotto, where

His active youth he pass'd, and where his throne

Yet stands mysterious; whither Minos came

Each ninth returning year, the king of gods

And mortals there in secret to consult

On justice, and the tables of his law

To inscribe anew. Oft also with like zeal

Great Rhea's mansion from the Cnossian gates

Men visit; nor less oft the antique fane

Built on that sacred spot, along the banks

Of shady Theron, where benignant Jove

And his majestic consort join'd their hands

And spoke their nuptial vows. Alas,‘ twas there

That the dire fame of Athens sunk in bonds

I first received; what time an annual feast

Had summon'd all the genial country round,

By sacrifice and pomp to bring to mind

That first great spousal; while the enamour'd youths

And virgins, with the priest before the shrine,

Observe the same pure ritual, and invoke

The same glad omens. There, among the crowd

Of strangers from those naval cities drawn

Which deck, like gems, the island's northern shore,

A merchant of Ægina I descried,

My ancient host; but, forward as I sprung

To meet him, he, with dark dejected brow,

Stopp'd half averse; and, “O Athenian guest,”

He said, “art thou in Crete, these joyful rites

Partaking? Know thy laws are blotted out:

Thy country kneels before a tyrant's throne.”

He added names of men, with hostile deeds

Disastrous; which obscure and indistinct

I heard: for, while he spake, my heart grew cold

And my eyes dim; the altars and their train

No more were present to me; how I fared,

Or whither turn'd, I know not; nor recall

Aught of those moments, other than the sense

Of one who struggles in oppressive sleep,

And, from the toils of some distressful dream

To break away, with palpitating heart,

Weak limbs, and temples bathed in death-like dew,

Makes many a painful effort. When at last

The sun and nature's face again appear'd,

Not far I found me, where the public path,

Winding through cypress groves and swelling meads,

From Cnossus to the cave of Jove ascends.

Heedless I follow'd on; till soon the skirts

Of Ida rose before me, and the vault

Wide opening pierced the mountain's rocky side.

Entering within the threshold, on the ground

I flung me, sad, faint, overworn with toil.’