Analysis of Dion
William Wordsworth 1770 (Wordsworth House) – 1850 (Cumberland)
. See Plutarch.
Serene, and fitted to embrace,
Where'er he turned, a swan-like grace
Of haughtiness without pretence,
And to unfold a still magnificence,
Was princely Dion, in the power
And beauty of his happier hour.
And what pure homage then did wait
On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam
Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere,
Fell round him in the grove of Academe,
Softening their inbred dignity austere--
That he, not too elate
With self-sufficing solitude,
But with majestic lowliness endued,
Might in the universal bosom reign,
And from affectionate observance gain
Help, under every change of adverse fate.
Five thousand warriors--O the rapturous day!
Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield,
Or ruder weapon which their course might yield,
To Syracuse advance in bright array.
Who leads them on?--The anxious people see
Long-exiled Dion marching at their head,
He also crowned with flowers of Sicily,
And in a white, far-beaming, corslet clad!
Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear
The gazers feel; and, rushing to the plain,
Salute those strangers as a holy train
Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear)
That brought their precious liberty again.
Lo! when the gates are entered, on each hand,
Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine
In seemly order stand,
On tables set, as if for rites divine;--
And, as the great Deliverer marches by,
He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown;
And flowers are on his person thrown
In boundless prodigality;
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer,
Invoking Dion's tutelary care,
As if a very Deity he were!
Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn,
Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn!
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads
Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades!
For him who to divinity aspired,
Not on the breath of popular applause,
But through dependence on the sacred laws
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired,
Intent to trace the ideal path of right
(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars)
Which Dion learned to measure with sublime delight;--
But He hath overleaped the eternal bars;
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent
With aught that breathes the ethereal element,
Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood,
Unjustly shed, though for the public good.
Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain,
Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain;
And oft his cogitations sink as low
As, through the abysses of a joyless heart,
The heaviest plummet of despair can go--
But whence that sudden check? that fearful start!
He hears an uncouth sound--
Anon his lifted eyes
Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound,
A Shape of more than mortal size
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round!
A woman's garb the Phantom wore,
And fiercely swept the marble floor,--
Like Auster whirling to and fro,
His force on Caspian foam to try;
Or Boreas when he scours the snow
That skims the plains of Thessaly,
Or when aloft on Mænalus he stops
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops!
So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping,
The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed,
Sweeping--vehemently sweeping--
No pause admitted, no design avowed!
"Avaunt, inexplicable Guest!--avaunt,"
Exclaimed the Chieftain--"let me rather see
The coronal that coiling vipers make;
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake,
And the long train of doleful pageantry
Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt;
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee,
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn,
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!"
But Shapes, that come not at an earthly call,
Will not depart when mortal voices bid;
Lords of the visionary eye whose lid,
Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall!
Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement
Obeys a mystical intent!
Your Minister would brush away
The spots that to my soul adhere;
But should she labour night and day,
They will not, cannot disappear;
Whence angry perturbations,--and that look
Which no philosophy can brook!
Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name;
Who, through the porta
Scheme | XAAAABBCDEDECFFGGC HIIHJXJXEGGEXKLKLMGXCNNB OXXXPQQPRSRSTUXXGGVWVWXYXYXZZVMVV1 1 2 3 2 3 CJ4 4 JXJGO 5 6 6 5 UTHEHE7 7 XXX |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11 01010101 10110111 11011 0101011 110100010 0101110010 01110111 111010101 1101011101 111001110 1001110001 111101 11110 11010101 100010101 0101000101 11010011011 110100101001 11110011101 1101011111 110010101 1111010101 111010111 11011101100 000111011 101011111 011010101 0111010101 11010100101 1111010001 1101110111 101111111 01101 1101111101 01010100101 11111111 010111101 0101 11010010111 010111 1101010010 1101110001 110101101 1001111101 111100100101 1111010001 1101110001 1101010101 1001110101 0111001111 1111011111 110111010101 111100101 01001111101 111100100100 11011101011 0101110101 1111110101 1001000101 0111111 11011011 01001010111 1111011101 111111 11101 1101110011 01111101 0100110101 01010101 01010101 11010101 111100111 11111001 110111 110111111 1111111 11111111010 0101010101 10100010 1101010101 1010011 0101011101 0111101 01111100101 0011110100 110111011 1111010111 110101111 001101110111 1111111101 1101110101 110100111 1101010111 1111110100 01010001 11001101 01111101 1111101 1111001 110010011 11010011 1101111111 01010111001 11010 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,321 |
Words | 704 |
Sentences | 26 |
Stanzas | 6 |
Stanza Lengths | 18, 24, 35, 13, 12, 3 |
Lines Amount | 105 |
Letters per line (avg) | 32 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 552 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 116 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 3:33 min read
- 177 Views
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"Dion" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 1 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/42185/dion>.
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