V.

Blameless was Ion, beautiful to see, With native genius, with rich gifts endowed; He might of his descent be nobly proud, Yet meekly tempered was, spake modestly, Nor sought the plaudits of the noisy crowd, When Duty called him in the thick to be. His life flowed calmly clear, not hoarse nor loud; He wearied not of immortality, Nor like Tithonus begged a time-spun shroud; But life-long drank at fountains of pure truth, The seer unsated of eternal youth. ’Tis not for Ion’s sake these tears I shed, ’Tis for the Age he nursed, his genius fed,— Ion immortal is,—he is not dead.