The Curse Of Minerva Lord Byron

The Curse Of Minerva

Pallas te hoc Vulnere Pallas
Immolat et poenam scelerato ex Sanguine Sumit.
ATHENS: CAPUCHIN CONVENT, March 17, 1811.

Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, [1]
Along Morea's hills the setting Sun;
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O'er the hushed deep the yellow beam he throws, [i]
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows;
On old Ægina's rock and Hydra's isle [2]
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine. [ii]
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious Gulf, unconquered Salamis!

Their azure arches through the long expanse, [iii]
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven,
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven;
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. [iv]
On such an eve his palest beam he cast
When, Athens! here thy Wisest looked his last.
How watched thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murdered Sage's [3] latest day!
Not yet—not yet—Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes;
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seemed to pour,
The land where Phoebus never frowned before;
But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head,
The cup of Woe was quaffed—the Spirit fled;
The soul of Him that scorned to fear or fly, [v]
Who lived and died as none can live or die.