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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529871" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Palmyra (2nd Edition)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">---anankta ton pantôn huperbal-<br>lonta chronon makarôn.<br>Pindar. Hymn. frag. 33</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Spirit of the days of yore! <br>Thou! who, in thy haunted cave, <br>By the torrent's sounding shore, <br>Mark'st the autumnal tempest rave: <br>Or, where on some ivied wall <br>Twilight-mingled moonbeams fall, <br>Deep in aisles and cloisters dim, <br>Hear'st the grey monks' verpser hymn: <br>Or, beneath the cypress shade, <br>Where forgotten chiefs are laid, <br>Pacing slow with solemn tread, <br>Breathest the verse that wakes the dead--- <br>By the ivied convent lone, <br>By the Runic warrior's stone, <br>By the mountain-cataract's roar, <br>Spirit! thee I seek no more. <br>Let me, remote from earthly care, <br>Thy philosophic vigils share, <br>Amid the wrecks of ancient time, <br>More sad, more solemn, more sublime, <br>Where, half-sunk in seas of sand, <br>Thedmor's marble wastes expand. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">These silent wrecks, more eloquent than speech, <br>Full many a tale of awful note impart: <br>Truths more severe than bard or sage can teach <br>This pomp of ruin presses on the heart <br>Sad through the palm the evening breezes-sigh: <br>No sound of man the solitude pervades, <br>Where shattered forms of ancient monarchs lie, <br>Mid grass-grown halls, and falling colonnades. <br>Beneath the drifting sand, the clustering weed, <br>Rest the proud relics of departed power. <br>None may the trophy-cinctured tablet read, <br>On votive urn, or monumental tower, <br>Nor tell whose wasted forms the mouldering tombs embower. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Enthusiast fancy, robed in light, <br>Dispels oblivion's deepening night. <br>Her charms a solemn train unfold, <br>Sublime on evening clouds of gold, <br>Of sceptred kings, in proud array, <br>And laurelled chiefs, and sages grey. <br>But whose the forms, oh fame! declare, <br>That crowd majestic on the air? <br>Pour from thy deathless roll the praise <br>Of kings renowned in elder days. <br>I call in vain! The welcome strain <br>Of praise to them no more shall sound: <br>Their actions bright must sleep in night, <br>Till time shall cease his mystic round. <br>The glories of their ancient sway <br>The stream of years has swept away: <br>Their names, that nations heard with fear, <br>Shall ring no more on mortal ear. <br>Yet still the muse's eye may trace <br>The noblest chief of Thedmor's race, <br>Who, by Euphrates' startling waves, <br>Bade outraged Rome her prostrate might unfold, <br>Tore from the brow of Persia's pride <br>The wreath in crimson victory dyed, <br>And o'er his flying slaves <br>Tumultuous ruin rolled. <br>Throned by his side, a lovely form, <br>In youthful majesty sublime, <br>Like sun-beams through the scattering storm, <br>Shines through the floating mists of time: <br>Even as in other years she shone, <br>When here she fixed her desert-throne, <br>Triumphant in the transient smiles of fate; <br>When Zabdas led her conquering bands <br>O'er Asia's many-peopled lands, <br>And subject monarchs thronged her palace-gate: <br>Ere yet stern war's avenging storm, <br>Captivity's dejected form, <br>And death, in solitude and darkness furled, <br>Closed round the setting star, that ruled the eastern world. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dim shades around her move again, <br>From memory blotted by the lapse of years: <br>Yet, foremost in the sacred train, <br>The venerable sage appears, <br>Who once, these desolate arcades <br>And time-worn porticoes among, <br>Disclosed to princely youths and high-born maids <br>The secret fountains of Mæonian song, <br>And traced the mazy warblings of the lyre, <br>With all a critic's art, and all a poet's fire. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">What mystic form, uncouth and dread, <br>With withered cheek, and hoary head, <br>Swift as the death-fire cleaves the sky, <br>Swept on sounding pinions by? <br>'Twas Time. I know the foe of kings, <br>His scythe, and sand, and eagle-wings: <br>He cast a burning look around, <br>And waved his bony hand, and frowned. <br>Far from the spectre's scowl of fire, <br>Fancy's feeble forms retire: <br>Her air-born phantoms melt away, <br>Like stars before the rising day. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>One shadowy tint enwraps the plain: <br>No form is near, no steps intrude, <br>To break the melancholy reign <br>Of silence and of solitude. <br>Ah! little thought the wealthy proud, <br>When rosy pleasure laughed aloud, <br>And music, with symphonious swell, <br>Attuned to joy her festal shell, <br>That here, amid their ancient land, <br>The wanderer of the distant days <br>Should mark, with sorrow-clouded gaze, <br>The mighty wilderness of sand, <br>While not a sound should meet his ear, <br>Save of the desert-gales, that sweep, <br>In modulated murmurs deep, <br>The wasted graves above <br>Of those, who once had revelled here <br>In happiness and love. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Short is the space to man assigned, <br>His earthly vale to tread. <br>He wanders, erring, weak, and blind, <br>By adverse passions led: <br>Love, that with feeling's tenderest flow <br>To rapture turns divided woe, <br>And brightens every smile of fate <br>That kindred souls participate: <br>Jealousy, whose poisonous breath <br>Blasts affection's opening bud: <br>Wild despair, that laughs in death: <br>Stern revenge, that bathes in blood: <br>Fear, that his form in darkness shrouds, <br>And trembles at the whispering air: <br>And hope, that pictures on the clouds <br>Celestial visions, false, but fair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">From the earliest twilight-ray, <br>That marked creation's natal day, <br>Till yesterday's declining fire, <br>Thus still have rolled, perplexed by strife, <br>he many-mingling wheels of life, <br>And still shall roll, till time's last beams expire. <br>And thus, in every age, in every clime, <br>While years swift-circling fly, <br>The varying deeds, that mark the present time, <br>Will be but shadows of the days gone by. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Swift as the meteor's midnight course, <br>Swift as the cataract's headlong force, <br>Swift as the clouds, whose changeful forms <br>Hang on the rear of flying storms, <br>So swift is Time's colossal stride <br>Above the wrecks of human pride. <br>These temples, awful in decay, <br>Whose ancient splendor half endures, <br>These arches, dim in parting day, <br>These dust-defiled entablatures, <br>These shafts, whose prostrate pride around <br>The desert-weed entwines its wreath, <br>These capitals, that strew the ground, <br>Their shattered colonnades beneath, <br>These pillars, white in lengthening files, <br>Grey tombs, and broken peristyles, <br>May yet, through many an age, retain <br>The pomp of Thedmor's wasted reign: <br>But Time still shakes, with giant-tread, <br>The marble city of the dead, <br>That crushed at last, a shapeless heap, <br>Beneath the drifted sands shall sleep. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The flower, that drinks the morning-dew, <br>Far on the evening gale shall fly: <br>The bark, that glides o'er ocean blue, <br>Dashed on the distant rocks shall lie: <br>The tower, that frowns in martial pride, <br>Shall by the lightning-brand be riven: <br>The arch, that spans the summer tide, <br>Shall down the wintry floods be driven: <br>The tomb, that guards the great one's name, <br>Shall yield to time its sacred trust: <br>The laurel of imperial fame <br>Shall wither in unwatered dust. <br>His mantle dark oblivion flings <br>Around the monuments of kings, <br>Who once to conquest shouting myriads bore. <br>Fame's trumpet-blast, and victory's clarion shrill, <br>Pass, like an echo of the hill, <br>That breathes one wild response, and then is heard no more. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But ne'er shall earthly time throw down <br>The immortal pile that virtue rears: <br>Her golden throne, and starry crown, <br>Decay not with revolving years: <br>For He, whose solemn voice controlled <br>Necessity's mysterious sway, <br>And yon vast orbs from chaos rolled <br>Along the elliptic paths of day, <br>Has fixed her empire, vast and high, <br>Where primogenial harmony <br>Unites, in ever-cloudless skies, <br>Affection's death-divided ties; <br>Where wisdom, with unwearying gaze, <br>The universal scheme surveys, <br>And truth, in central light enshrined, <br>Leads to its source sublime the indissoluble mind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Love+Peacock">Thomas Love Peacock</a><div class=q>
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lonta chronon makarôn.
Pindar. Hymn. frag. 33


Spirit of the days of yore! 
Thou! who, in thy haunted cave, 
By the torrent's sounding shore, 
Mark'st the autumnal tempest rave: 
Or, where on some ivied wall 
Twi..."></div>
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