The swain stops short,
And sighs; the officious townsmen stand at gaze,
And shrinking give the sullen pageant room.
Yet not the less obsequious was his brow;
Nor less profuse of courteous words his tongue,
Of gracious gifts his hand; the while by stealth, 80
Like a small torrent fed with evening showers,
His train increased; till, at that fatal time
Just as the public eye, with doubt and shame
Startled, began to question what it saw,
Swift as the sound of earthquakes rush'd a voice
Through Athens, that Pisistratus had fill'd
The rocky citadel with hostile arms,
Had barr'd the steep ascent, and sate within
Amid his hirelings, meditating death
To all whose stubborn necks his yoke refused. 90
Where then was Solon? After ten long years
Of absence, full of haste from foreign shores,
The sage, the lawgiver had now arrived:
Arrived, alas! to see that Athens, that
Fair temple raised by him and sacred call'd
To Liberty and Concord, now profaned
By savage hate, or sunk into a den
Of slaves who crouch beneath the master's scourge,
And deprecate his wrath, and court his chains.
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