Wo to the spectres of Parnassus' shade,
If truth should mingle in the masquerade.
Lo, as the songster's pale creations pass,
Off come at once the "Dearest," and " Alas!"
Crack go the lines and levers used to prop
Top-heavy thoughts, and down at once they drop.
Flowers weep for hours; Love shrieking for his dove,
Finds not the solace that he seeks-above.
Fast in the mire, through which in happier time
He ambled dry-shod on the stilts of rhyme,
The prostrate poet finds at length a tongue
To curse in prose the thankless stars he sung.

An Hour in Athens.

Glory and empire! once upon these towers,

With Freedom-godlike triad! how ye sate!

BYRON.

THERE are a few names that stand out in pleasing relief amid the long, dark catalogues of wars and turmoils which blacken the page of history. The mind, sickened by the disgusting details of savage combat, delights to linger on these bright oases, and to revel in the associations which cluster around them.

Among these, Athens is conspicuous. The eye of the student rests upon that name, "as though a spell was on him;" its echo falls upon his ear, and sweet thoughts of grandeur, of poetry and song, steal in almost unconsciously and occupy his mind. In thought and feeling, he is at once transported to the favorite land of the gods and the muses-his feet tread on classic soil, and his spirit drinks inspiration from the lips of by-gone genius.

But sadder memories oppress the modern traveler as he lays down his staff to rest amid her ruins. The story of her former greatness is chanted by every breeze, but in gloomy discord with the sad tale of her subsequent disaster. In vain the eye strives amid this "wilderness of marble" to recognize the city of Pericles and Solon. In vain does the ear listen for the accents of her former eloquence, or to hear the approaching footsteps of her blind old bard. The mind left to its own reflections, wanders through the days of Grecian prowess, and follows her decline down to the time when the turban and scimetar gained admission into her sacred precincts, before which the priest and the Host forever fled, to give place to that system and those influences which have since reduced her to her present condition.

The contrast between Ancient and Modern Greece affords the most

melancholy proof of the instability of all things earthly. The merciless Turk has polluted her shrines, ravaged her temples, felled her sacred groves, and crimsoned her plains with the life-blood of her unoffending citizens. Revolution has swept its desolating tide over that fairest portion of our earth, and the land of Demosthenes and Homer lives only in the divine inspiration of their genius.

The scholar of the nineteenth century looks back to Greece with mingled feelings of pity and veneration. Here is Parnassus, which, though no longer the abode of the Muses, appears to him "'mid desolation tuneful still." Here the Castalian Fount still flows, and though the ivy bower no longer droops above it, and the Pythia has ceased to quaff its waters, its murmurs yet fill the ear with music.

Although Greece has undergone so many changes, and now appears a totally different country, the recollections of her former glory awaken the deepest interest in the bosom of the traveler amid her ruins. No nation has left behind so noble monuments of departed glory-none such trophies of valor. Here are Thermopyla and Marathon. Here are Sparta and Athens-names that will never die. "Their echo is endless." It is not the exhibition of modern art, or the display of present wealth or power, which now arrests the stranger's attention. His mind is filled with reminiscences of the mighty dead who slumber beneath the soil which they have rendered forever sacred. The recollection of their names and deeds throws a halo over the otherwise desolate scene, and reflects the glories of former years over her present degradation.

Very different from these are the emotions excited by the ruins of Rome. True, there is much of magnificence and regal splendor remaining on the site of the Eternal City. But the traveler's thoughts dwell rather on the bloody and cruel reign of her Neros, than on the perfection of her art or the refinement of her national character. Her history is too full of insurrections and conspiracies, and her ruins comprise too many triumphal arches,-proud monuments of her prowess, and lust of conquest, to awaken those tender emotions which a view of Athens inspires. Rome owed much to Athens. Grecian taste and Grecian hands constructed many of her proudest ornaments.

Who can view the Coliseum and not shudder at the recollection of the scenes which those walls have witnessed? Who can enter her dungeons and not shed a tear of sympathy for the sufferings of Jugurtha? But in Greece it is far otherwise. Here we see no monuments of military glory. The Greeks had no rostrum, covered with the beaks of captured ships-no arches, proclaiming a victor's triumph. Bright temples consecrated to the worship of their divinities, the shrines of the Muses, and life-like statues wrought from the silent marble, betray a refinement of character and delicacy of taste unknown to the golden days of Rome. Who does not read in these, as clearly as in the page of history, the peculiar character of the ancient Greeks? Who is not attracted by their love of pleasure, beauty, and grace, and, above all, by their piety to the gods?

In Athens, the famed metropolis, the eye of Greece and centre of

its glory, exist the most perfect specimens of ancient art. Here the antiquarian may spend long years of research, and yet be unsatisfied; here the sculptor finds models for his chisel, and the architect learns both the first rudiments and the perfect principles of his art. This were enough to enshrine the name of Athens in every heart, but it is only the reflection of her true glory.

Like other nations, Greece rose slowly from barbarism to civilization; and, under the influence of a serene and invigorating climate, and the most enchanting natural scenery, she reared her immortal line of heroes and philosophers.

During the age of Pericles, Athens attained the summit of her glory. It is narrated, that when a schoolboy, his political lessons were given him in music. This incident may perhaps account, in some measure, for his subsequent purity of character, and for his enlightened policy, and to it, doubtless, is to be attributed much of that elegance which has rendered Athens world-renowned. His tutors were selected from the most learned men of the age, among whom was Anaxagoros, from whom he imbibed the true principles of philosophy, and learned submission to the gods. Vain were any attempt on our part to do justice to his integrity, or his patriotism. It would be mere presumption to attempt a faithful description of his public career. dignity amid violent popular commotion are worthy of all praise. But this is not all. We must look at their results if we would correctly estimate the importance and glory of his deeds.

man.

His calmness and

At the close of the Persian war, Athens was but one of the allied states of Greece, and under the almost absolute dominion of a single Pericles, doubtless, foresaw the danger which might ensue from Cimon's successors in office, and to save his city from even liability to calamity, he took strong grounds of opposition to the existing government, and, in spite of all adverse circumstances, struggled to rescue her from the hand of what he considered a dangerous aristocracy. Mistaken views, and even ambitious motives have been attributed to him, but the result proves his sagacity and well attests his patriotism. At length he succeeded. Cimon was ostracised—and after various turns of fortune, Pericles was in possession of almost absolute authority. During the first thirteen years of his government, Athens was at peace. The attention of both ruler and people was turned to the study of nature and philosophy, and to the beautifying of their city. To the genius and energy of Pericles, Athens is indebted for those crowning glories of architectural beauty which have been the wonder of all ages. He made Athens

"Queen of all-whose very wrecks,

If lone and lifeless through a desert hurled,

Would wear more true magnificence than decks

The assembled thrones of all the existing world."

It was during the time of Pericles, also, that Sophocles brought the drama to its highest perfection. The art of Sculpture lent its aid

the study of music, philosophy, and oratory exerted their influence, and the Athenian citizen soon became, in taste and refinement, a counterpart of his beautiful city.

Surely no country was ever adorned with such magnificence. "Under the brightest sky that ever shone above, and inhaling the purest air that was ever breathed below," surrounded by a most wonderful display of natural beauty and artistic skill, what wonder is it that "Attic taste" has come down to us as a proverb? What wonder that this was the chosen abode of the Muses? What other land has ever

been worthy of a Homer or Demosthenes? What other city was ever worthy of her Pericles? But her history is not all so bright. Like all others, it has its dark pages.

The attention of the people, after a time, became wholly engrossed with the cultivation of taste, the enthusiasm of the drama, and the dogmas of philosophy. Little attention was bestowed upon the severer duties of life, and the Athenians, led captive by their own charms, became an effeminate and pleasure-loving people. Their national character suffered from the shock. The Peloponnesian war drew them from their favorite pursuits. Pericles was removed by death, and Athens from that time dates her decline. Her national spirit checked and enfeebled-her leaders ostracised, or otherwise removedinvolved in bloody wars, and beset by numerous foes, her downfall was inevitable and speedy. Anarchy brooded over the once happy city. Her temples desecrated, her statues demolished, her shrines polluted, the spirit of beauty took its flight, and the Muses hushed their song forever.

And

"Now she stands,

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo;
An empty urn, within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago."

Thus to the stranger amid her ruins, do the golden days of Athens' pass in review. Beautiful as the hues which sport upon an evening sky, and like them, rendered more brilliant by the contrast with succeeding night. Her ruins are all that now remain to show that Grecian glory is not an idle tale. There are no signs of modern art. The spirit of the people is broken. Their piety is extinguished. The Moslem sits mute and sullen in their sacred places, and all that Greece e'er knew of valor and enterprise, has "gone glimmering through the dream of things that were."

Such are the reflections which a view of Athens inspires in the mind of the modern scholar. For beauty of architecture it is without a rival. Its name is a synonym for all of beauty which art can portray. Even the dust which the hand of time has strewn above its ruins, seems

sacred in our eyes. Alone in its silent majesty, it tells of a spirit of piety worthy of a truly Christian people. But it is not architectural beauty alone that occupies the thoughts of the beholder; it is the associations connected with them. He feels that he is in the land where

Paul preached and Homer sung, the home of the muses-the native land of poetry, eloquence, and patriotism, and a thousand recollections fill him with reverential awe. Is he a Christian? he admires their piety, while he weeps over its mistaken direction. Is he a patriot? Below him are the plains of Marathon. Is he a scholar? He stands on classic ground. The tree of knowledge, whose fruit is now so delicious to his taste, first took root in the very soil in which he stands. Its leaves first "panted in the breezes" which now moan desolate through the deserted temples. Stupid must be the heart whose deepest sensibilities are not moved at such recollections, amid such ruins. Cold and lifeless the patriotism that feels not all its ardor fired amid the sepulchral mounds of Marathon.

LUDWIG.

Editor's Table.

"FIND a man whose words paint you a likeness, you have found a man worth something; mark his manner of doing it, as very characteristic of him.” If this remark of Carlyle be true, what will our readers say of the author of the following, which came too late for publication, even if there had been no other reasons for excluding it! The writer is discoursing upon "Female Beauty," and launches out into this rich and high-flown panegyric. The loveliness that dances upon the rippling water, that smiles in the clouds of a setting sun, or sports in the delicate shades of the rainbow, the serene elegance that is shadowed forth by a placid lake, reflecting a romantic landscape, that descends upon the soul from the azure of night spangled with glittering points, the joyous exhilaration that enraptures the heart when soft melody floats to the ear with extatic swellings, the power of the sweetest poetry thrilling the soul, and transporting it away from the material to commune with the spiritual, all, come short of the grace that moves in the female form of the calm celestial beauty that gleams from woman's eyes, those mirrors of the soul-of the melody of her voice richer far than the music of the spheres, of the breathing angelic thoughts that rise from her heart, a Pæan of praise to her Maker more delicate than the warbling of nightingale's. The silken ringlets, floating about the classic brow like rich drapery just drawn aside from the front of some marble shrine, are matched only by the lustre of those eyes which flash with the altar flame of love, or by those dimpling cheeks blooming with the mellow tints of an Italian sky, and lighted up by the heavenly smile that lingers on the lips like a bright sunbeam gleaming through a bower of roses."

But we must forbear, though we dislike exceedingly to break in upon such гарturous strains. We will say however, to gratify the curiosity of our readers, that the whole is equally fervid with this brilliant extract.

Though it is all fine! very fine indeed! we humbly submit that the talents of the writer would have been better appreciated in the days of knight errantry. Such delicate sentiment is altogether too imaginative and ethereal for this matterof-fact age. Even the fair beings themselves, who are the subject of the author's ecstacy, will hardly venture to claim a likeness to such a glowing picture. We ad