Through the darken'd long perspective on the living foreground cast;
Feel'st thou not the thrilling rhythm of the grand old Grecian line,
Pulsing to the march of Progress, cadencing her hymn divine,
All the forces of the present by the subtle sparks controlled,
Of the quickening Grecian fire, of the mighty Lights of old.
"Through the dark and desolation of the centuries between,
Still 'The Porch's' glories glimmer, still 'The Garden's' wreaths are green.
Still the Zeno, still the Plato, still the Pyrrho points the page,
Still the Philip fears the pebble—still Melitus dreads the Sage,
Still the Dionysius trembles at the stylus of the age.