  III. Thus museful rode the Tyrant, princely plumed, To his high seat upon the sacred rock: And Solon, blank beside his rule, resumed The meditation which that passing mock Had buffeted awhile to sallowness. He little loved the man, his office less, Yet owned him for a flower of his kind. Therefore the heavier curse on Athens he! The people grew not in themselves, but blind, Accepted sight from him, to him resigned Their hopes of stature, rootless as at sea. IV. As under sea lay Solon's work, or seemed By turbid shore-waves beaten day by day; Defaced, half formless, like an image dreamed, Or child that fashioned in another clay Appears, by strangers' hands to home returned. But shall the Present tyrannize us? earned It was in some way, justly says the sage. One sees not how, while husbanding regrets; While tossing scorn abroad from righteous rage, High vision is obscured; for this is age When robbed—more infant than the babe it frets. V. Yet see Athenians treading the black path Laid by a prince's shadow! well content To wait his pleasure, shivering at his wrath: They bow to their accepted Orient With offer of the all that renders bright: Forgetful of the growth of men to light, As creatures reared on Persian milk they bow. Unripe! unripe! The times are overcast. But still may they who sowed behind the plough True seed fix in the mind an unborn Now To make the plagues afflicting us things past. |
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