# Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Appeal for Female Education in Greece

APPEAL FOR FEMALE EDUCATION IN GREECE.
Why break'st thou thus, the tomb of ancient night,
 Thou blind old bard, majestic and alone?
 Whose sightless eyes have fill'd the world with light,
 Such light as fades not with the set of sun,
 Light that the kindled soul doth feed upon,
 When with her harp she soars o'er mortal things,
 And from heaven's gate doth win some echoed tone,
 And fit it deftly to her raptur'd strings,
And wake the sweet response, tho' earth with discord rings.
 And lo! the nurtur'd in the Theban bower,
 Impetuous Pindar, mad with tuneful ire,
 Whose hand abrupt could rule with peerless power
 The linked sweetness of the Doric lyre;
 He too, whom History graves with pen of fire
 First on her chart,—the eloquent, the mild,
 Down at whose feet she sitteth as her sire,
 Listing his legends like a charmed child,
Clear as the soul of truth, yet rob'd in fancy wild.
And thou, meek martyr to the hemlock draught,
 Whose fearless voice for truth and virtue strove,
 Whose stainless life, and death serene, have taught
 The Christian world to wonder and to love,—
 Come forth, with Plato, to thy hallow'd grove
 And bring that golden chain by Time unriven,
 Which round this pendent universe ye wove,
 For still our homage to your lore is given,
And your pure wisdom priz'd, next to the page of Heaven.
 Still gathering round, high shades of glorious birth
 Do throng the scene. Hath aught disturb'd their rest?
 Why brings Philosophy her idols forth
 With pensive brow, in solemn silence drest?
 And see he comes, who o'er the sophist's crest
 Did pour the simple element of light,
 Reduce the complex thought to reason's test,
 And stand severe in intellectual might,—
Undated, undeceiv'd, the peerless Stagyrite.
 Those demi-gods of Greece! How sad they rove
 Where temple-crown'd, the Acropolis aspires,
 Or green Hymeltus rears her honied grove,
 Or glows the Parthenon 'neath sunset fires,
 Or where the olive, ere its prime, expires
 By Moslem hatred scath'd. Methinks they seem
 Westward to gaze, with unreveal'd desires,
 Whether they roam by pure Ilyssus' stream,
Or haunt with troubled step the shades of Academe.
 Seek ye the West?—that land of noteless birth,
 That when proud Athens rul'd with regal sway
 All climes and kindreds of the awe-struck earth,
 Still in its cold, mysterious cradle lay,
Till the world-finder rent the veil away,
 And caught the giant-foundling's savage tone,
 Turn ye to us, young emmets of a day,
 Who flit admiring round your ancient throne? Seek ye a boon of us,—the nameless, the unknown?
 We, who have blest you with our lisping tongue,
 And to your baptism bow'd when life was new,
 And when upon our mother's breast we hung
 Your flowing nectar with our life-stream drew,
 Who dipp'd our young feet in Castalian dew,
 And pois'd with tiny arm that lance and shield,
 Before whose might the boastful Persian flew,
 We, who Ulysses trac'd o'er flood and field,
What can ye ask of us, we would not joy to yield?
 Ye ask no warrior's aid,—the Turk hath fled,
 And on your throne Bavaria's prince reclines,—
 No gold or gems, their dazzling light to shed,
 Pearl from the sea, nor diamond from the mines,—
 Ye ask that ray from Learning's lamp which shines,
 To guide your sons, so long in error blind,
 The cry speeds forth from yon embowering vines,—
 "Give bread and water to the famish'd mind,
And from its durance dark the imprison'd soul unbind."
 Behold the Apostle of the Cross sublime,
 The warn'd of Heaven, the eloquent, the bold,
 Who spake to Athens in her hour of prime,
 Braving the thunders of Olympus old,
 And spreading forth the Gospel's snowy fold,
 Where heathen altars pour'd a crimson tide,
 And stern tribunals their decrees unroll'd,
How would his zeal rebuke our ingrate pride,
If ye should sue to us and coldly be denied.
 Explores your eagle-glance that weaker band
 Who bear the burdens of domestic care?
 Who guide the distaff with a patient hand,
 And trim the evening hearth with cheerful air?
 Point ye the Attic maid, the matron fair,
 The blooming child devoid of letter'd skill?
 What would ye ask? Wild winds the answer bear,
 In blended echoes from the Aonian hill,
"Give them the book of God?" Immortal shades!—we will.