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E'en thus the essential energy of Art
There in each wreck imperishably glows! The soul of Athens lives in every line, Pervading brightly still the ruins of her shrine.
Mark-on the storied frieze the graceful train,
The holy festival's triumphal thro:g, In fair procession, to Minerva's fane,
With many a sacred symbol, move along. There every shade of bright existence trace,
The fire of youth, the dignity of age ;
The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ;
Art, unobtrusive, there ennobles form;
Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows;
Is clothed with majesty, with being glows.
Lives in the grand, the delicate, and fair ;
O, conquering Genius! that couldst thus retain
The subtle graces, fading as they rise,
Arrest warm life in all its energies,
Might wake ambition's envy, and create
fate! And when thy hand first gave its wonders birth, The realms that hail them now, scarce claimed a
name on earth. Wert thou some spirit of a purer sphere
But once beheld, and never to return ? No-we may hail again thy bright career,
Again on earth a kindred fire shall burn ! Though thy least relics, e'en in ruin, bear A stamp of heaven that ne'er hath been re.
newed A light inherent-let not man despair ;
Still be hope ardent, patience unsubdued; For still is nature fair, and thought divine, And art hath won a world in models pure as thine.
Gaze on yon forms, corroded and defaced
Yet there the germ of future glory lies ! Their virtual grandeurs could not be erased; It clothes them still, though veiled from com.
They once were gods and heroes--and beheld
As the blest guardians of their native scene ; And hearts of warriors, sages, bards, have swelled With awe that owned their sovereignty of
mien. Ages have vanished since those hearts were cold. And still those shattered forms retain their god.
'Midst their bright kindred, from their marble
throne, They have looked down on thousand storms of
time. Surviving power, and fame, and freedom flown,
They still remained, still tranquilly sublime ! Till mortal hands the heaven conclave marred.
The Olympian groups have sunk, and are forgot, Not e'en their dust could weeping Athens guard
But these were destined to a nobler lot! And they have borne, to light another land, The quenchless ray that soon shall gloriously ex
Phidias ! supreme in thought! what hand but
thine, In human worksthus blending earth and heaven, O'er nature's truth hath shed that grace divine,
To mortal form immortal grandeur given ?
What soul but thine infusing all its power,
In these last monuments of matchless days,
And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ?
BY EDWARD C. PINCKNEY
I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
The seeming paragon;
And kindly stars have given
'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Her very tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds;
Dwells ever in her words:
And from her lips each flows,
Forth issue from the roso.
Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers.
So fill her, she appears
The idol of past years !
A picture on the brain,
A sound must long remain;
So very much endears,
Will not be life's, but hers.
I fill'd this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
The seeming paragon-
Some more of such a frame,
And weariness a name.