Page:The Poems of Oscar Wilde.pdf/229

 Then rise supreme Athena argent-limbed!

And, if my lips be music-less, inspire

At least my life: was not thy glory hymned

By One who gave to thee his sword and lyre

Like Æschylos at well-fought Marathon,

And died to show that Milton's England still could bear a son!

And yet I cannot tread the Portico

And live without desire, fear and pain,

Or nurture that wise calm which long ago

The grave Athenian master taught to men,

Self-poised, self-centred, and self-comforted,

To watch the world's vain phantasies go by with un-bowed head.

Alas! that serene brow, those eloquent lips,

Those eyes that mirrored all eternity.

Rest in their own Colonos, an eclipse

Hath come on Wisdom, and Mnemosyne

Is childless; in the night which she had made

For lofty secure flight Athena's owl itself hath strayed.

Nor much with Science do I care to climb,

Although by strange and subtle witchery

She draw the moon from heaven: the Muse of Time

Unrolls her gorgeous-coloured tapestry 215