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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.

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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 matron's calm austerity of grace,

The ardent warrior, the benignant sage ;
The nymph's light symmetry, the chief's proud

mien;
Each ray of beauty caught and mingled in the scene.

Art, unobtrusive, there ennobles form;

Each pure chaste outline exquisitely flows;
There, e'en the steed, with bold expression warm,

Is clothed with majesty, with being glows.
One mighty mind hath harmonized the whole;
These varied groups the same bright impress

bear;
One beam and essence of exalting soul

Lives in the grand, the delicate, and fair ;
And well that pageant of the glorious dead
Blends us with nobler days, and loftier spirits fled.

O, conquering Genius! that couldst thus retain

The subtle graces, fading as they rise,
Eternalize expression's fleeting reign,

Arrest warm life in all its energies,
And fix them on the stone—thy glorious lot

Might wake ambition's envy, and create
Powers half divine : while nations are forgot,
A thought, a dream of thine, hath vanquished

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.

mon eyes.

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.

like mould.

'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

pand.

Phidias ! supreme in thought! what, hand but

thine, In human works thus 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, Could, from their ruins, bid young Genius tower,

And Hope aspire to more exalted praise ? And guide deep Thought to that secluded height Where excellence is throned in purity of light.

A HEALTH

BY EDWARD C. PINCKNEY

I FILL this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,

'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her very tone is music's own,

Like those of morning birds;
And something more than melody

Dwells ever in her words :
The coinage of her heart are they,

And from her lips each fows,
As one may see the burden'd bee

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.
And lovely passions, changing oft,

So fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns-

The idol of past years !
Of her bright face one glance will trace

A picture on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;
B:it memory, such as mine of her,

So very much endears,
When death is nigh my latest sigh

Will not be life's, but hers.

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I fill'd this cup to one made up

Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon-
Her health! and would on earth there stood,

Some more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

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