Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By PhilipFreneau14 Plato to Theon
T
Where Theon would forever be,
Is but a name, is but a sound—
Mere emptiness and vanity.
Give me the heaven’s remotest sphere,
Above these gloomy scenes to rise
Of desolation and despair.
Now languid grown, too dimly glow;
Joy has to grief the heart resigned,
And love itself is changed to woe.
These for a moment damp your pain;
The gleam is o’er, the charm is lost,
And darkness clouds the soul again.
Where real bliss can ne’er be found;
Aspire where sweeter blossoms blow
And fairer flowers bedeck the ground;
And green eternal crowns the year;
The little god within your breast
Is weary of his mansion here.
His height meridian to regain,—
The dawn arrives—he must not stay
To shiver on a frozen plain.
’T is but the freedom of the mind;
Jove made us mortal—his we are;
To Jove, dear Theon, be resigned.