As states increas'd, and governments were form'd,
Her aid less useful, she retir'd to grots
And shady bow'rs, content to teach and please.
Under her laurel frequent bards repos'd;
Voluble Pindar troll'd his rapid song,
Or Sappho breath'd her spirited complaint:
Here the stage buskin, there the lyric choir,
And Homer's epic trumpet. Happy Greece,
Bless'd in her offspring! Seat of eloquence,
Of arts and reason; patriot-virtue's seat!
Did the sun thither dart uncommon rays!
Did some presiding genius hover o'er
That animated soil with brooding wings!
The sad reverse might start a gentle tear —
Go, search in Athens for herself, enquire
Where are her orators, her sages now:
Her arsenal overturn'd, her walls in dust,
But far less ruin'd than her soul decay'd.
The stone inscrib'd to Socrates, debas'd
To prop a reeling cot: Minerva's shrine
Possess'd by those who never heard her name.
Upon the mount where old Mùsaeus sung,
Sits the grim turban'd captain, and exacts
Harsh tribute; on the spot where Plato taught
His heav'nly strains sublime, a stupid Turk
Is preaching ignorance and Mahomet.
Turn next to Rome: is that the clime, the place,
Where once, as Fame reports, Augustus liv'd?
What magic has transform'd her, shrunk her nerves?
A wither'd laurel, and a mould'ring arch! —
Cou'd the pure crimson tide, the noblest blood
That ever flow'd, to such a puddle turn?
She ends, like her long Appian, in a marsh;
Or Jordan's river pouring his clear urn
Into the black Asphaltus' slimy lap.
Patrons of wit, and victors of mankind,
Bards, warriors, worthies (revolution strange)
Are pimps and fidlers, mountebanks and monks.
In Tully's beehive, magazine of sweets,
The lazy drones are buzzing or asleep.