Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,

As fondly he believes. - Upon the side Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew From out the tomb of him for whom she died;

And ever, when such stature they had gained

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; A constant interchange of growth and blight! 1

DION.

(SEE PLUTARCH.)

This poem was first introduced by a stanza that I have since transferred to the Notes, for reasons there given, and I cannot comply with the request expressed by some of my friends that the rejected stanza should be restored. I hope they will be content if it be, hereafter, immediately attached to the poem, instead of its being degraded to a place in the Notes.2

I.

SERENE, and fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
And what pure homage then did wait
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere
That he, not too elate

With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,

Might in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse fate.

II.

Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day!

Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield,

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,

To Syracuse advance in bright array. Who leads them on?- The anxious

people see

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head, He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad!

Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or

fear

The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the Immortals
dear)

2 See Note.

That brought their precious liberty again. Lo! when the gates are entered, on each hand,

Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine

In seemly order stand,

On tables set, as if for rites divine;
And, as the great Deliverer marches by,
He looks on festal ground with fruits

bestrown;

And flowers are on his person thrown
In boundless prodigality;

Nor doth the general voice abstain from

prayer,

Invoking Dion's tutelary care, As if a very Deity he were!

III.

Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and

mourn

Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads

Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades!

For him who to divinity aspired,
Not on the breath of popular applause,
But through dependence on the sacred
laws

Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired,

Intent to trace the ideal path of right (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars)

Which Dion learned to measure with sublime delight;

But He hath overleaped the eternal bars; And, following guides whose craft holds

no consent

With aught that breathes the ethereal element,

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,

Unjustly shed, though for the public good. Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,

Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;
And oft his cogitations sink as low
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go-
But whence that sudden check? that fear-
ful start!