Go, seek proud Sparta’s monuments and fanes! In scatter’d fragments o’er the vale they lie; Of all they were not e’en enough remains To lend their fall a mournful majesty.[35] Birth-place of those whose names we first revered In song and story--temple of the free! O thou, the stern, the haughty, and the fear’d, Are such thy relics, and can this be thee? Thou shouldst have left a giant wreck behind, And e’en in ruin claim’d the wonder of mankind. LIV. For thine were spirits cast in other mould Than all beside--and proved by ruder test; They stood alone--the proud, the firm, the bold, With the same seal indelibly imprest. Theirs were no bright varieties of mind, One image stamp’d the rough, colossal race, In rugged grandeur frowning o’er mankind, Stern, and disdainful of each milder grace; As to the sky some mighty rock may tower, Whose front can brave the storm, but will not rear the flower. LV. Such were thy sons--their life a battle-day! Their youth one lesson how for thee to die! Closed is that task, and they have passed away Like softer beings train’d to aims less high. Yet bright on earth _their_ fame who proudly fell, True to their shields, the champions of thy cause, Whose funeral column bade the stranger tell How died the brave, obedient to thy laws![36] O lofty mother of heroic worth, How couldst thou live to bring a meaner offspring forth? LVI. Hadst thou but perish’d with the free, nor known A second race, when glory’s noon went by, Then had thy name in single brightness shone A watchword on the helm of liberty! Thou shouldst have pass’d with all the light of fame, And proudly sunk in ruins, not in chains. But slowly set thy star midst clouds of shame, And tyrants rose amidst thy falling fanes; And thou, surrounded by thy warriors’ graves, Hast drain’d the bitter cup once mingled for thy slaves. LVII. Now all is o’er--for thee alike are flown Freedom’s bright noon and slavery’s twilight cloud; And in thy fall, as in thy pride, alone, Deep solitude is round thee as a shroud. Home of Leonidas! thy halls are low; From their cold altars have thy Lares fled; O’er thee, unmark’d, the sunbeams fade or glow, And wild-flowers wave, unbent by human tread; And midst thy silence, as the grave’s profound, A voice, a step, would seem as some unearthly sound. LVIII.