Classic Poem

“D EAD is old Greece,” they mourned ere yet arose
This Greek—this oak of old Achaian graft
Seed-sown where westward tempests wept and laughed,
As now when some great gust of heaven blows
From lair levantine. How the giant grows!—
Not to lone ruin of a withered shaft,
But quaffing life in every leafy draught,—
Fathered by Storm and mothered by Repose.

Nay, doubt the Greeks are gone till, this green crest
In splendor fallen, round the wrack shall be
Prolonged, like memories of a noble guest,
The phantom glory of the actor's day.
Then, musing on Olympus, men shall say
The myth of Jove took rise from lesser majesty.