Of firm esteem and friendship render'd more Than brothers: first Miltiades, who drew From godlike AEacus his ancient line; That AEacus whose unimpeach'd renown For sanctity and justice won the lyre 230 Of elder bards to celebrate him throned In Hades o'er the dead, where his decrees The guilty soul within the burning gates Of Tartarus compel, or send the good To inhabit with eternal health and peace The valleys of Elysium. From a stem So sacred, ne'er could worthier scion spring Than this Miltiades; whose aid ere long The chiefs of Thrace, already on their ways, Sent by the inspired foreknowing maid who sits 240 Upon the Delphic tripod, shall implore To wield their sceptre, and the rural wealth Of fruitful Chersonesus to protect With arms and laws. But, nothing careful now Save for his injured country, here he stands In deep solicitude with Cimon join'd: Unconscious both what widely different lots Await them, taught by nature as they are To know one common good, one common ill. For Cimon, not his valour, not his birth 250 Derived from Codrus, not a thousand gifts Dealt round him with a wise, benignant hand; No, not the Olympic olive, by himself From his own brow transferr'd to soothe the mind Of this Pisistratus, can long preserve From the fell envy of the tyrant's sons, And their assassin dagger. But if death Obscure upon his gentle steps attend, Yet fate an ample recompense prepares In his victorious son, that other great 260 Miltiades, who o'er the very throne Of Glory shall with Time's assiduous hand In adamantine characters engrave The name of Athens; and, by Freedom arm'd 'Gainst the gigantic pride of Asia's king, Shall all the achievements of the heroes old Surmount, of Hercules, of all who sail'd From Thessaly with Jason, all who fought For empire or for fame at Thebes or Troy. Such were the patriots who within the porch 270 Of Solon had assembled. But the gate Now opens, and across the ample floor Straight they proceed into an open space Bright with the beams of morn: a verdant spot, Where stands a rural altar, piled with sods Cut from the grassy turf and girt with wreaths, Of branching palm. Here Solon's self they found Clad in a robe of purple pure, and deck'd With leaves of olive on his reverend brow. He bow'd before the altar, and o'er cakes 280 Of barley from two earthen vessels pour'd Of honey and of milk a plenteous stream; Calling meantime the Muses to accept His simple offering, by no victim tinged With blood, nor sullied by destroying fire, But such as for himself Apollo claims In his own Delos, where his favourite haunt Is thence the Altar of the Pious named.