All up the craggy cliffs, that tower'd to heaven,
Green wav'd the murmuring pines on every side;
Save where, fair opening to the beam of even,
A dale slop'd gradual to the valley wide.
Echoed the vale with many a cheerful note;
The lowing of the herds resounding long.
The shrilling pipe, and mellow horn remote,
And social clamours of the festive throng.
For now, low hovering o'er the western main,
Where amber clouds begirt his dazzling throne,
The sun with ruddier verdure deck'd the plain,
And lakes, and streams, and spires triumphal shone.
And many a band of ardent youths were seen;
Some into rapture fir'd by glory's charms,
Or hurl'd the thundering car along the green,
Or march'd embattled on in glittering arms.
Others more mild, in happy leisure gay,
The darkening forest's lonely gloom explore,
Or by Scamander's flowery margin stray,
Or the blue Hellespont's resounding shore.
But chief the eye to Ilion's glories turn'd
That gleam'd along th' extended champaign far,
And bulwarks, in terrific pomp adorn'd,
Where Peace sat smiling at the frowns of War.
Rich in the spoils of many a subject-clime,
In pride luxurious blaz'd th' imperial dome;
Tower'd mid th' encircling grove the fane sublime,
And dread memorials mark'd the hero's tomb,
Who from the black and bloody cavern led
The savage stern, and sooth'd his boisterous breast;
Who spoke, and Science rear'd her radiant head,
And brighten'd o'er the long benighted waste;
Or, greatly daring in his country's cause,
Whose heaven-taught soul the awful plan design'd,
Whence Power stood trembling at the voice of laws,
Whence soar'd on Freedom's wing th' ethereal mind.
But not the pomp that royalty displays,
Nor all the imperial pride of lofty Troy,
Nor Virtue's triumph of immortal praise,
Could rouse the languor of the lingering boy.