William Wordsworth

Here you will find the Long Poem Dion of poet William Wordsworth


. 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 portal of one moment's guilt,
 Pursue thee with their deadly aim!
 O matchless perfidy! portentous lust
 Of monstrous crime!--that horror-striking blade,
 Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid
 The noble Syracusan low in dust!
 Shudder'd the walls--the marble city wept--
 And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh;
 But in calm peace the appointed Victim slept