The Tyrant passed, and friendlier was his eye
     On the great man of Athens, whom for foe
     He knew, than on the sycophantic fry
     That broke as waters round a galley’s flow,
     Bubbles at prow and foam along the wake. 
     Solidity the Thunderer could not shake,
     Beneath an adverse wind still stripping bare,
     His kinsman, of the light-in-cavern look,
     From thought drew, and a countenance could wear
     Not less at peace than fields in Attic air
     Shorn, and shown fruitful by the reaper’s hook.

     II

     Most enviable so; yet much insane
     To deem of minds of men they grow! these sheep,
     By fits wild horses, need the crook and rein;
     Hot bulls by fits, pure wisdom hold they cheap,
     My Lawgiver, when fiery is the mood. 
     For ones and twos and threes thy words are good;
     For thine own government are pillars:  mine
     Stand acts to fit the herd; which has quick thirst,
     Rejecting elegiacs, though they shine
     On polished brass, and, worthy of the Nine,
     In showering columns from their fountain burst.

     III

     Thus museful rode the Tyrant, princely plumed,
     To his high seat upon the sacred rock: 
     And Solon, blank beside his rule, resumed
     The meditation which that passing mock
     Had buffeted awhile to sallowness. 
     He little loved the man, his office less,
     Yet owned him for a flower of his kind. 
     Therefore the heavier curse on Athens he! 
     The people grew not in themselves, but, blind,
     Accepted sight from him, to him resigned
     Their hopes of stature, rootless as at sea.

     IV

     As under sea lay Solon’s work, or seemed
     By turbid shore-waves beaten day by day;
     Defaced, half formless, like an image dreamed,
     Or child that fashioned in another clay
     Appears, by strangers’ hands to home returned. 
     But shall the Present tyrannize us? earned
     It was in some way, justly says the sage. 
     One sees not how, while husbanding regrets;
     While tossing scorn abroad from righteous rage,
     High vision is obscured; for this is age
     When robbed—­more infant than the babe it frets!

     V

     Yet see Athenians treading the black path
     Laid by a prince’s shadow! well content
     To wait his pleasure, shivering at his wrath: 
     They bow to their accepted Orient
     With offer of the all that renders bright: 
     Forgetful of the growth of men to light,
     As creatures reared on Persian milk they bow. 
     Unripe! unripe!  The times are overcast. 
     But still may they who sowed behind the plough
     True seed fix in the mind an unborn now
     To make the plagues afflicting us things past.