Dion

.  See Plutarch.
    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.

   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, corslet 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)
  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!

   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 fearful start!
    He hears an uncouth sound--
    Anon his lifted eyes
  Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
  A Shape of more than mortal size
  And hideous aspect, stalking round and round!
    A woman's garb the Phantom wore,
    And fiercely swept the marble floor,--
    Like Auster whirling to and fro,
    His force on Caspian foam to try;
  Or Boreas when he scours the snow
  That skims the plains of Thessaly,
  Or when aloft on Mænalus he stops
  His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!

   So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping,
  The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed,
  Sweeping--vehemently sweeping--
  No pause admitted, no design avowed!
  "Avaunt, inexplicable Guest!--avaunt,"
  Exclaimed the Chieftain--"let me rather see
  The coronal that coiling vipers make;
  The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,
  And the long train of doleful pageantry
  Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt;
  Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,
  Move where the blasted soil is not unworn,
  And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!"

   But Shapes, that come not at an earthly call,
  Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
  Lords of the visionary eye whose lid,
  Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall!
  Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement
    Obeys a mystical intent!
  Your Minister would brush away
  The spots that to my soul adhere;
  But should she labour night and day,
  They will not, cannot disappear;
  Whence angry perturbations,--and that look
  Which no philosophy can brook!

   Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built
  Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
  Who, through the porta