A reward by some king was once offered, we're told, To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind; But talk of new pleasures!—give me but the old, And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find. Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss, Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day, Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this, And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way! In the mean time, a bumper—your Angels, on high, May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span; But, as we are not Angels, why—let the flask fly— We must be happy all ways that we can.

* * * * *

Now nearly fled was sunset's light, Leaving but so much of its beam As gave to objects, late so blight, The coloring of a shadowy dream; And there was still where Day had set A flush that spoke him loath to die— A last link of his glory yet, Binding together earth and sky. Say, why is it that twilight best Becomes even brows the loveliest? That dimness with its softening Touch Can bring out grace unfelt before, And charms we ne'er can see too much, When seen but half enchant the more? Alas, it is that every joy In fulness finds its worst alloy, And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed, Is sweeter than the whole possest;— That Beauty, when least shone upon, A creature most ideal grows; And there's no light from moon or sun Like that Imagination throws;— It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks Even from a bright reality, And turning inly, feels and thinks For heavenlier things than e'er will be.

Such was the effect of twilight's hour On the fair groups that, round and round, From glade to grot, from bank to bower, Now wandered thro' this fairy ground; And thus did Fancy—and champagne— Work on the sight their dazzling spells, Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain, Now brightened in the gloom to belles; And the brief interval of time, 'Twixt after dinner and before, To dowagers brought back their prime, And shed a halo round two-score.

Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye, The ear, the fancy, quick succeed; And now along the waters fly Light gondoles, of Venetian breed, With knights and dames who, calm reclined, Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide— Astonishing old Thames to find Such doings on his moral tide.

So bright was still that tranquil river, With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver, That many a group in turn were seen Embarking on its wave serene; And 'mong the rest, in chorus gay, A band of mariners, from the isles Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles, As smooth they floated, to the play Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:—

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy, Our home is on the sea; When Nature gave The ocean-wave, She markt it for the Free. Whatever storms befall, boy, Whatever storms befall, The island bark Is Freedom's ark, And floats her safe thro' all.

Behold yon sea of isles, boy, Behold yon sea of isles, Where every shore Is sparkling o'er With Beauty's richest smiles. For us hath Freedom claimed, boy, For us hath Freedom claimed Those ocean-nests Where Valor rests His eagle wing untamed.

And shall the Moslem dare, boy, And shall the Moslem dare, While Grecian hand Can wield a brand, To plant his Crescent there? No—by our fathers, no, boy, No, by the Cross, we show— From Maina's rills To Thracia's hills All Greece re-echoes "No!"

* * * * *

Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind A minute come and go again, Even so by snatches in the wind, Was caught and lost that choral strain, Now full, now faint upon the ear, As the bark floated far or near. At length when, lost, the closing note Had down the waters died along, Forth from another fairy boat, Freighted with music, came this song—

SONG.

Smoothly flowing thro' verdant vales, Gentle river, thy current runs, Sheltered safe from winter gales, Shaded cool from summer suns. Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide. Fenced with flowery shelter round; No rude tempest wakes the tide, All its path is fairy ground.

But, fair river, the day will come, When, wooed by whispering groves in vain, Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home, To mingle with the stormy main. And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass Into the world's unsheltered sea, Where, once thy wave hath mixt, alas, All hope of peace is lost for thee.

Next turn we to the gay saloon, Resplendent as a summer noon, Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights, A Zodiac of flowers and tapers— (Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)— Quadrille performs her mazy rites, And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;—

Working to death each opera strain, As, with a foot that ne'er reposes, She jigs thro' sacred and profane, From "Maid and Magpie" up to "Moses;"—[3] Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes, Till fagged Rossini scarce respires; Till Meyerbeer for mercy sues, And Weber at her feet expires.

And now the set hath ceased—the bows Of fiddlers taste a brief repose, While light along the painted floor, Arm within arm, the couples stray, Talking their stock of nothings o'er, Till—nothing's left at last to say. When lo!—most opportunely sent— Two Exquisites, a he and she, Just brought from Dandyland, and meant For Fashion's grand Menagerie, Entered the room—and scarce were there When all flocked round them, glad to stare At any monsters, any where. Some thought them perfect, to their tastes; While others hinted that the waists (That in particular of the he thing) Left far too ample room for breathing: Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes, The isthmus there should be so small, That Exquisites, at last, like fishes, Must manage not to breathe at all. The female (these same critics said), Tho' orthodox from toe to chin, Yet lacked that spacious width of head To hat of toadstool much akin— That build of bonnet, whose extent Should, like a doctrine of dissent, Puzzle church-doors to let it in.

However—sad as 'twas, no doubt, That nymph so smart should go about, With head unconscious of the place It ought to fill in Infinite Space— Yet all allowed that, of her kind, A prettier show 'twas hard to find; While of that doubtful genus, "dressy men," The male was thought a first-rate specimen. Such Savans, too, as wisht to trace The manners, habits, of this race— To know what rank (if rank at all) 'Mong reasoning things to them should fall— What sort of notions heaven imparts To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts And how far Soul, which, Plato says, Abhors restraint, can act in stays— Might now, if gifted with discerning, Find opportunities of learning: As these two creatures—from their pout And frown, 'twas plain—had just fallen out; And all their little thoughts, of course. Were stirring in full fret and force;— Like mites, through microscope espied, A world of nothings magnified.

But mild the vent such beings seek, The tempest of their souls to speak: As Opera swains to fiddles sigh, To fiddles fight, to fiddles die, Even so this tender couple set Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

WALTZ DUET.

HE. Long as I waltzed with only thee, Each blissful Wednesday that went by, Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee Adorned a youth so blest as I. Oh! ah! ah! oh! Those happy days are gone—heigho!

SHE. Long as with thee I skimmed the ground, Nor yet was scorned for Lady Jane, No blither nymph tetotumed round To Collinet's immortal strain. Oh! ah! etc. Those happy days are gone—heigho!

HE. With Lady Jane now whirled about, I know no bounds of time or breath; And, should the charmer's head hold out, My heart and heels are hers till death. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round thro' life we'll go.

SHE. To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son, A youth renowned for waistcoats smart, I now have given (excuse the pun) A vested interest in my heart. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE. What if by fond remembrance led Again to wear our mutual chain. For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle dead, And I levant from Lady Jane. Oh! ah! etc. Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE. Tho' he the Noodle honors give, And thine, dear youth, are not so high, With thee in endless waltz I'd live, With thee, to Weber's Stop— Waltz, die! Oh! ah! etc. Thus round and round thro' life we'll go.

[Exeunt waltzing.

* * * * *

While thus, like motes that dance away Existence in a summer ray, These gay things, born but to quadrille, The circle of their doom fulfil— (That dancing doom whose law decrees That they should live on the alert toe A life of ups-and-downs, like keys Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:—) While thus the fiddle's spell, within, Calls up its realm of restless sprites. Without, as if some Mandarin Were holding there his Feast of Lights, Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers, Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers, Till, budding into light, each tree Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.

Here shone a garden-lamps all o'er, As tho' the Spirits of the Air Had taken it in their heads to pour A shower of summer meteors there;— While here a lighted shrubbery led To a small lake that sleeping lay, Cradled in foliage but, o'er-head, Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray; While round its rim there burning stood Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded, That shrunk from such warm neighborhood, And, looking bashful in the flood, Blushed to behold themselves so wedded.

Hither, to this embowered retreat, Fit but for nights so still and sweet; Nights, such as Eden's calm recall In its first lonely hour, when all So silent is, below, on high, That is a star falls down the sky, You almost think you hear it fall— Hither, to this recess, a few, To shun the dancers' wildering noise, And give an hour, ere night-time flew, To music's more ethereal joys, Came with their voices-ready all As Echo waiting for a call— In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee, To weave their mingling ministrelsy, And first a dark-eyed nymph, arrayed— Like her whom Art hath deathless made, Bright Mona Lisa[4]—with that braid Of hair across the brow, and one Small gem that in the centre shone— With face, too, in its form resembling Da Vinci's Beauties-the dark eyes, Now lucid as thro' crystal trembling, Now soft as if suffused with sighs— Her lute that hung beside her took, And, bending o'er it with shy look, More beautiful, in shadow thus, Than when with life most luminous, Past her light finger o'er the chords, And sung to them these mournful words:—

SONG.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying— Here will I lay me and list to thy song; Should tones of other days mix with its sighing, Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long, Chase them away-they bring but pain, And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute—day is fast going, Soon will its light from thy chords die away; One little gleam in the west is still glowing, When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay. Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled! Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group that late in garb of Greeks Sung their light chorus o'er the tide— Forms, such as up the wooded creeks Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide, Or nightly on her glistening sea, Woo the bright waves with melody— Now linked their triple league again Of voices sweet, and sung a strain, Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear But caught it, on the fatal steep, She would have paused, entranced, to hear, And for that day deferred her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft Their lustre o'er the AEgean fling, Beneath my casement, low and soft, I heard a Lesbian lover sing; And, listening both with ear and thought, These sounds upon the night breeze caught— "Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung, In the first love-dreams of her lyre, When words of passion from her tongue Fell like a shower of living fire. And still, at close of every strain, I heard these burning words again— "Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who listens at this hour to thee!"

Once more to Mona Lisa turned Each asking eye—nor turned in vain Tho' the quick, transient blush that burned Bright o'er her cheek and died again, Showed with what inly shame and fear Was uttered what all loved to hear. Yet not to sorrow's languid lay Did she her lute-song now devote; But thus, with voice that like a ray Of southern sunshine seemed to float— So rich with climate was each note— Called up in every heart a dream Of Italy with this soft theme:—

SONG.

Oh, where art thou dreaming, On land, or on sea? In my lattice is gleaming The watch-light for thee;

And this fond heart is glowing To welcome thee home, And the night is fast going, But thou art not come: No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers Should wake from their rest; 'Tis the hour of all hours, When the lute singeth best, But the flowers are half sleeping Till thy glance they see; And the husht lute is keeping Its music for thee. Yet, thou com'st not!

* * * * *

Scarce had the last word left her lip, When a light, boyish form, with trip Fantastic, up the green walk came, Prankt in gay vest to which the flame Of every lamp he past, or blue Or green or crimson, lent its hue; As tho' a live chameleon's skin He had despoiled, to robe him in. A zone he wore of clattering shells, And from his lofty cap, where shone A peacock's plume, there dangled bells That rung as he came dancing on. Close after him, a page—in dress And shape, his miniature express— An ample basket, filled with store Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore; Till, having reached this verdant seat, He laid it at his master's feet, Who, half in speech and half in song, Chanted this invoice to the throng:—

SONG.

Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?— We've toys to suit all ranks and ages; Besides our usual fools' supply, We've lots of playthings, too, for sages. For reasoners here's a juggler's cup That fullest seems when nothing's in it; And nine-pins set, like systems, up, To be knocked down the following minute. Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?

Gay caps we here of foolscap make. For bards to wear in dog-day weather; Or bards the bells alone may take, And leave to wits the cap and feather, Tetotums we've for patriots got, Who court the mob with antics humble; Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot, A glorious spin, and then—a tumble, Who'll buy, etc.

Here, wealthy misers to inter, We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper; While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver, That, fast as they can wish, will caper. For aldermen we've dials true, That tell no hour but that of dinner; For courtly parsons sermons new, That suit alike both saint and sinner. Who'll buy, etc.

No time we've now to name our terms, But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you, This oldest of all mortal firms, Folly and Co., will try to please you. Or, should you wish a darker hue Of goods than we can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do) To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you. Who'll buy, etc.

While thus the blissful moments rolled, Moments of rare and fleeting light, That show themselves, like grains of gold In the mine's refuse, few and bright; Behold where, opening far away, The long Conservatory's range, Stript of the flowers it wore all day, But gaining lovelier in exchange, Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware, A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper!—blithe repast Of other times, now dwindling fast, Since Dinner far into the night Advanced the march of appetite; Deployed his never-ending forces Of various vintage and three courses, And, like those Goths who played the dickens With Rome and all her sacred chickens, Put Supper and her fowls so white, Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight. Now waked once more by wine—whose tide Is the true Hippocrene, where glide The Muse's swans with happiest wing, Dipping their bills before they sing— The minstrels of the table greet The listening ear with descant sweet:—

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVEE AND COUCHEE.

Call the Loves around, Let the whispering sound Of their wings be heard alone. Till soft to rest My Lady blest At this bright hour hath gone, Let Fancy's beams Play o'er her dreams, Till, touched with light all through. Her spirit be Like a summer sea, Shining and slumbering too. And, while thus husht she lies, Let the whispered chorus rise— "Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright eyes."

But the day-beam breaks, See, our Lady wakes! Call the Loves around once more, Like stars that wait At Morning's gate, Her first steps to adore. Let the veil of night From her dawning sight All gently pass away, Like mists that flee From a summer sea, Leaving it full of day. And, while her last dream flies, Let the whispered chorus rise— "Good morning, good morning, to our Lady's bright eyes."

SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee, If to love thee be to prize Naught of earth or heaven above thee, Nor to live but for those eyes: If such love to mortal given, Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven, 'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, For from those eyes the madness came. Forgive but thou the crime of loving In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong with thee approving, Than right with all a world to praise!

* * * * *

But say, while light these songs resound, What means that buzz of whispering round, From lip to lip—as if the Power Of Mystery, in this gay hour, Had thrown some secret (as we fling Nuts among children) to that ring Of rosy, restless lips, to be Thus scrambled for so wantonly? And, mark ye, still as each reveals The mystic news, her hearer steals A look towards yon enchanted chair, Where, like the Lady of the Masque, A nymph, as exquisitely fair As Love himself for bride could ask, Sits blushing deep, as if aware Of the winged secret circling there. Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse, What, in the name of all odd things That woman's restless brain pursues, What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale:—yon blushing maid, Who sits in beauty's light arrayed, While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise, (Who from her eyes, as all observe, is Learning by heart the Marriage Service,) Is the bright heroine of our song,— The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long We've missed among this mortal train, We thought her winged to heaven again.

But no—earth still demands her smile; Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile. And if, for maid of heavenly birth, A young Duke's proffered heart and hand Be things worth waiting for on earth, Both are, this hour, at her command. To-night, in yonder half-lit shade, For love concerns expressly meant, The fond proposal first was made, And love and silence blusht consent Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approved, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in the air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love, Holding, as if to drop it down Gently upon her curls, a crown Of Ducal shape—but, oh, such gems! Pilfered from Peri diadems, And set in gold like that which shines To deck the Fairy of the Mines: In short, a crown all glorious—such as Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun Up in the bright orient hath begun To canter his immortal beam; And, tho' not yet arrived in sight, His leaders' nostrils send a steam Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light. What's to be done? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we: And when the day thus shines outright, Even dearest friends must bid good night. So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking, Now almost a by-gone tale; Beauties, late in lamp-light basking, Now, by daylight, dim and pale; Harpers, yawning o'er your harps, Scarcely knowing flats from sharps; Mothers who, while bored you keep Time by nodding, nod to sleep; Heads of hair, that stood last night Crepe, crispy, and upright, But have now, alas, one sees, a Leaning like the tower of Pisa; Fare ye will—thus sinks away All that's mighty, all that's bright: Tyre and Sidon had their day, And even a Ball—has but its night!

[1] Archimedes.

[2] The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

[3] In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as "Moyse," "Pharaon," etc., to the dancers selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

[4] The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting,—Vasari, vol. vii.



EVENINGS IN GREECE

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."—Vol. vi. p. 174.

T.M.



EVENINGS IN GREECE.



FIRST EVENING.

"The sky is bright—the breeze is fair, "And the mainsail flowing, full and free— "Our farewell word is woman's prayer, "And the hope before us—Liberty! "Farewell, farewell. "To Greece we give our shining blades, "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!

"The moon is in the heavens above, "And the wind is on the foaming sea— "Thus shines the star of woman's love "On the glorious strife of Liberty! "Farewell, farewell. "To Greece we give our shining blades, "And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"

Thus sung they from the bark, that now Turned to the sea its gallant prow, Bearing within its hearts as brave, As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave; And leaving on that islet's shore, Where still the farewell beacons burn, Friends that shall many a day look o'er The long, dim sea for their return.

Virgin of Heaven! speed their way— Oh, speed their way,—the chosen flower, Of Zea's youth, the hope and stay Of parents in their wintry hour, The love of maidens and the pride Of the young, happy, blushing bride, Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died— All, all are in that precious bark, Which now, alas! no more is seen— Tho' every eye still turns to mark The moonlight spot where it had been.

Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires, And mothers, your beloved are gone!— Now may you quench those signal fires, Whose light they long looked back upon From their dark deck—watching the flame As fast it faded from their view, With thoughts, that, but for manly shame, Had made them droop and weep like you. Home to your chambers! home, and pray For the bright coming of that day, When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep The Crescent from the Aegean deep, And your brave warriors, hastening back, Will bring such glories in their track, As shall, for many an age to come, Shed light around their name and home.

There is a Fount on Zea's isle, Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile All the sweet flowers, of every kind, On which the sun of Greece looks down, Pleased as a lover on the crown His mistress for her brow hath twined, When he beholds each floweret there, Himself had wisht her most to wear; Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreath Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines, And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe Their odor into Zante's wines:— The splendid woodbine that, as eve, To grace their floral diadems, The lovely maids of Patmos weave:—[2] And that fair plant whose tangled stems Shine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread, Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:— All these bright children of the clime, (Each at its own most genial time, The summer, or the year's sweet prime,) Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn The Valley where that Fount is born; While round, to grace its cradle green Groups of Velani oaks are seen Towering on every verdant height— Tall, shadowy, in the evening light, Like Genii set to watch the birth Of some enchanted child of earth— Fair oaks that over Zea's vales, Stand with their leafy pride unfurled; While Commerce from her thousand sails Scatters their fruit throughout the world![4]

'Twas here—as soon as prayer and sleep (Those truest friends to all who weep) Had lightened every heart; and made Even sorrow wear a softer shade— 'Twas here, in this secluded spot, Amid whose breathings calm and sweet Grief might be soothed if not forgot, The Zean nymphs resolved to meet Each evening now, by the same light That saw their farewell tears that night: And try if sound of lute and song, If wandering mid the moonlight flowers In various talk, could charm along With lighter step, the lingering hours, Till tidings of that Bark should come, Or Victory waft their warriors home!

When first they met—the wonted smile Of greeting having gleamed awhile— 'Twould touch even Moslem heart to see The sadness that came suddenly O'er their young brows, when they looked round Upon that bright, enchanted ground; And thought how many a time with those Who now were gone to the rude wars They there had met at evening's close, And danced till morn outshone the stars!

But seldom long doth hang the eclipse Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts— The breath from her own blushing lips, That on the maiden's mirror rests, Not swifter, lighter from the glass, Than sadness from her brow doth pass.

Soon did they now, as round the Well They sat, beneath the rising moon— And some with voice of awe would tell Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell In holy founts—while some would time Their idle lutes that now had lain For days without a single strain;— And others, from the rest apart, With laugh that told the lightened heart, Sat whispering in each other's ear Secrets that all in turn would hear;— Soon did they find this thoughtless play So swiftly steal their griefs away, That many a nymph tho' pleased the while, Reproached her own forgetful smile, And sighed to think she could be gay.

Among these maidens there was one Who to Leucadia[5] late had been— Had stood beneath the evening sun On its white towering cliffs and seen The very spot where Sappho sung Her swan-like music, ere she sprung (Still holding, in that fearful leap, By her loved lyre,) into the deep, And dying quenched the fatal fire, At once, of both her heart and lyre.

Mutely they listened all—and well Did the young travelled maiden tell Of the dread height to which that steep Beetles above the eddying deep—[6] Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round The dizzy edge with mournful sound— And of those scented lilies found Still blooming on that fearful place— As if called up by Love to grace The immortal spot o'er which the last Bright footsteps of his martyr past!

While fresh to every listener's thought These legends of Leucadia brought All that of Sappho's hapless flame Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame— The maiden, tuning her soft lute, While all the rest stood round her, mute, Thus sketched the languishment of soul, That o'er the tender Lesbian stole; And in a voice whose thrilling tone Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own, One of those fervid fragments gave, Which still,—like sparkles of Greek Fire, Undying, even beneath the wave,— Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire.

SONG.

As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid In love-sick languor hung her head, Unknowing where her fingers strayed, She weeping turned away, and said, "Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain— "I cannot weave, as once I wove— "So wildered is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

Again the web she tried to trace, But tears fell o'er each tangled thread; While looking in her mother's face, Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said, "Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain— "I cannot weave, as once I wove— "So wildered is my heart and brain "With thinking of that youth I love!"

* * * * *

A silence followed this sweet air, As each in tender musing stood, Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer, Of Sappho and that fearful flood: While some who ne'er till now had known How much their hearts resembled hers, Felt as they made her griefs their own, That they too were Love's worshippers.

At length a murmur, all but mute, So faint it was, came from the lute Of a young melancholy maid, Whose fingers, all uncertain played From chord to chord, as if in chase Of some lost melody, some strain Of other times, whose faded trace She sought among those chords again. Slowly the half-forgotten theme (Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot) Came to her memory—as a beam Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;— And while her lute's sad symphony Filled up each sighing pause between; And Love himself might weep to see What ruin comes where he hath been— As withered still the grass is found Where fays have danced their merry round— Thus simply to the listening throng She breathed her melancholy song:—

SONG.

Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day, Lonely and wearily life wears away. Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night— No rest in darkness, no joy in light! Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead— Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!

* * * * *

Of many a stanza, this alone Had 'scaped oblivion—like the one Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown With the lost vessel's name ashore Tells who they were that live no more. When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power— As when the air is warm, the scent Of the most wild and rustic flower Can fill the whole rich element— And in such moods the homeliest tone That's linked with feelings, once our own— With friends or joy gone by—will be Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!

But some there were among the group Of damsels there too light of heart To let their spirits longer droop, Even under music's melting art; And one upspringing with a bound From a low bank of flowers, looked round With eyes that tho' so full of light Had still a trembling tear within; And, while her fingers in swift flight Flew o'er a fairy mandolin, Thus sung the song her lover late Had sung to her—the eve before That joyous night, when as of yore All Zea met to celebrate The feast of May on the sea-shore.

SONG.

When the Balaika[7] Is heard o'er the sea, I'll dance the Romaika By moonlight with thee. If waves then advancing Should steal on our play, Thy white feet in dancing Shall chase them away.[8] When the Balaika Is heard o'er the sea, Thou'lt dance the Romaika My own love, with me.

Then at the closing Of each merry lay, How sweet 'tis, reposing Beneath the night ray! Or if declining The moon leave the skies, We'll talk by the shining Of each other's eyes.

Oh then how featly The dance we'll renew, Treading so fleetly Its light mazes thro':[9] Till stars, looking o'er us From heaven's high bowers, Would change their bright chorus For one dance of ours! When the Balaika Is heard o'er the sea, Thou'lt dance the Romaika, My own love, with me.

* * * * *

How changingly for ever veers The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears! Even as in April the light vane Now points to sunshine, now to rain. Instant this lively lay dispelled The shadow from each blooming brow, And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held Full empire o'er each fancy now.

But say—what shall the measure be? "Shall we the old Romaika tread," (Some eager asked) "as anciently "'Twas by the maids of Delos led, "When slow at first, then circling fast, "As the gay spirits rose—at last, "With hand in hand like links enlocked, "Thro' the light air they seemed to flit "In labyrinthine maze, that mocked "The dazzled eye that followed it?" Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"— While one young, dark-eyed Amazon, Whose step was air-like and whose glance Flashed, like a sabre in the sun, Sportively said, "Shame on these soft "And languid strains we hear so oft. "Daughters of Freedom! have not we "Learned from our lovers and our sires "The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free— "That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres, "But sword and shield clash on the ear "A music tyrants quake to hear? "Heroines of Zea, arm with me "And dance the dance of Victory!"

Thus saying, she, with playful grace, Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face (From Anatolia came the maid) Hung shadowing each sunny charm; And with a fair young armorer's aid, Fixing it on her rounded arm, A mimic shield with pride displayed; Then, springing towards a grove that spread Its canopy of foliage near, Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said, "To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head She waved the light branch, as a spear.

Promptly the laughing maidens all Obeyed their Chief's heroic call;— Round the shield-arm of each was tied Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be; The grove, their verdant armory, Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied; And as their glossy locks, let free, Fell down their shoulders carelessly, You might have dreamed you saw a throng Of youthful Thyads, by the beam Of a May moon, bounding along Peneus' silver-eddied stream!

And now they stept, with measured tread, Martially o'er the shining field; Now to the mimic combat led (A heroine at each squadron's head), Struck lance to lance and sword to shield: While still, thro' every varying feat, Their voices heard in contrast sweet With some of deep but softened sound From lips of aged sires around, Who smiling watched their children's play— Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:—

SONG.

"Raise the buckler—poise the lance— "Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"

Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy Danced in those happy days when Greece was free; When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy, Thus trained their steps to war and victory. "Raise the buckler—poise the lance— "Now here—now there—retreat—advance!" Such was the Spartan warriors' dance. "Grasp the falchion—gird the shield— "Attack—defend—do all but yield."

Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night, Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea That morning dawned by whose immortal light They nobly died for thee and liberty![11] "Raise the buckler—poise the lance— "Now here—now there—retreat—advance!" Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

* * * * *

Scarce had they closed this martial lay When, flinging their light spears away, The combatants, in broken ranks. All breathless from the war-field fly; And down upon the velvet banks And flowery slopes exhausted lie, Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, Resting at sunset from the chase.

"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said— One who himself had fought and bled, And now with feelings half delight, Half sadness, watched their mimic fight— "Fond maids! who thus with War can jest— "Like Love in Mar's helmet drest, "When, in his childish innocence, "Pleased with the shade that helmet flings, "He thinks not of the blood that thence "Is dropping o'er his snowy wings. "Ay—true it is, young patriot maids, "If Honor's arm still won the fray, "If luck but shone on righteous blades, "War were a game for gods to play! "But, no, alas!—hear one, who well "Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave— "Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell "What glory waits the patriot's grave."

SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day, A vanquished chief expiring lay. Upon the sands, with broken sword, He traced his farewell to the Free; And, there, the last unfinished word He dying wrote was "Liberty!"

At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell Of him who thus for Freedom fell; The words he wrote, ere evening came, Were covered by the sounding sea;— So pass away the cause and name Of him who dies for Liberty!

* * * * *

That tribute of subdued applause A charmed but timid audience pays, That murmur which a minstrel draws From hearts that feel but fear to praise, Followed this song, and left a pause Of silence after it, that hung Like a fixt spell on every tongue.

At length a low and tremulous sound Was heard from midst a group that round A bashful maiden stood to hide Her blushes while the lute she tried— Like roses gathering round to veil The song of some young nightingale, Whose trembling notes steal out between The clustered leaves, herself unseen. And while that voice in tones that more Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred, Came with a stronger sweetness o'er The attentive ear, this strain was heard:—

SONG.

I saw from yonder silent cave,[12] Two Fountains running side by side; The one was Memory's limpid wave, The other cold Oblivion's tide. "Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood, As deep I drank of Lethe's stream, "Be all my sorrows in this flood "Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"

But who could bear that gloomy blank Where joy was lost as well as pain? Quickly of Memory's fount I drank. And brought the past all back again; And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot, "Still let this soul to thee be true— "Rather than have one bliss forgot, "Be all my pains remembered too!"

* * * * *

The group that stood around to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had by degrees as came the lay More strongly forth retired away, Like a fair shell whose valves divide To show the fairer pearl inside: For such she was—a creature, bright And delicate as those day-flowers, Which while they last make up in light And sweetness what they want in hours.

So rich upon the ear had grown Her voice's melody—its tone Gathering new courage as it found An echo in each bosom round— That, ere the nymph with downcast eye Still on the chords, her lute laid by, "Another song," all lips exclaimed, And each some matchless favorite named; while blushing as her fingers ran O'er the sweet chords she thus began:—

SONG.

Oh, Memory, how coldly Thou paintest joy gone by: Like rainbows, thy pictures But mournfully shine and die. Or if some tints thou keepest That former days recall, As o'er each line thou weepest, Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly Thou paintest grief that's past; Joy's colors are fleeting, But those of Sorrow last. And, while thou bringst before us Dark pictures of past ill, Life's evening closing o'er us But makes them darker still.

* * * * *

So went the moonlight hours along, In this sweet glade; and so with song And witching sounds—not such as they, The cymbalists of Ossa, played, To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13] But soft and holy—did each maid Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile, And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place, On the sea-shore a ruin stood;— A relic of the extinguisht race, Who once o'er that foamy flood, When fair Ioulis[14] by the light Of golden sunset on the sight Of mariners who sailed that sea, Rose like a city of chrysolite Called from the wave by witchery. This ruin—now by barbarous hands Debased into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy head— Formed, as they tell in times of old The dwelling of that bard whose lay Could melt to tears the stern and cold, And sadden mid their mirth the gay— Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years And ages past still bright appears— Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now—to catch a view Of the white waters as they played Silently in the light—a few Of the more restless damsels strayed; And some would linger mid the scent Of hanging foliage that perfumed The ruined walls; while others went Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy space between, Where gilded chambers once had been; Or, turning sadly to the sea, Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest To some brave champion of the Free— Thinking, alas, how cold might be At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song From the dark ruins—a faint strain, As if some echo that among Those minstrel halls had slumbered long Were murmuring into life again.

But, no—the nymphs knew well the tone— A maiden of their train, who loved Like the night-bird to sing alone. Had deep into those ruins roved, And there, all other thoughts forgot, Was warbling o'er, in lone delight, A lay that, on that very spot, Her lover sung one moonlight night:—

SONG.

Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bowers? They are gone—all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone That all who heard him wisht his pain their own— He is gone—he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die— She is gone—she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say Of her who hears and him who sings this lay— They are gone—they both are gone!

* * * * *

The moon was now, from heaven's steep, Bending to dip her silvery urn Into the bright and silent deep— And the young nymphs, on their return From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates ranged around The sacred Spring, prepared to tune Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon, To that fair Fountain by whose stream Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

Who has not read the tales that tell Of old Eleusis' sacred Well, Or heard what legend-songs recount Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17] Gushing at once from the hard rock Into the laps of living flowers— Where village maidens loved to flock, On summer-nights and like the Hours Linked in harmonious dance and song, Charmed the unconscious night along; While holy pilgrims on their way To Delos' isle stood looking on, Enchanted with a scene so gay, Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade And its fair inmates now displayed. As round the Fount in linked ring They went in cadence slow and light And thus to that enchanted Spring Warbled their Farewell for the night:—

SONG.

Here, while the moonlight dim Falls on that mossy brim, Sing we our Fountain Hymn, Maidens of Zea! Nothing but Music's strain, When Lovers part in pain, Soothes till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!

Bright Fount so clear and cold Round which the nymphs of old Stood with their locks of gold, Fountain of Zea! Not even Castaly, Famed tho' its streamlet be, Murmurs or shines like thee, Oh, Fount of Zea!

Thou, while our hymn we sing, Thy silver voice shalt bring, Answering, answering, Sweet Fount of Zea! For of all rills that run Sparkling by moon or sun Thou art the fairest one, Bright Fount of Zea!

Now, by those stars that glance Over heaven's still expanse Weave we our mirthful dance, Daughters of Zea! Such as in former days Danced they by Dian's rays Where the Eurotas strays, Oh, Maids of Zea!

But when to merry feet Hearts with no echo beat, Say, can the dance be sweet? Maidens of Zea! No, naught but Music's strain, When lovers part in pain, Soothes till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!



SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

When evening shades are falling O'er Ocean's sunny sleep, To pilgrims' hearts recalling Their home beyond the deep; When rest o'er all descending The shores with gladness smile, And lutes their echoes blending Are heard from isle to isle, Then, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over, Now Ocean toils no more, And wings of halcyons hover Where all was strife before. Oh thus may life in closing Its short tempestuous day Beneath heaven's smile reposing Shine all its storms away: Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

On Helle's sea the light grew dim As the last sounds of that sweet hymn Floated along its azure tide— Floated in light as if the lay Had mixt with sunset's fading ray And light and song together died. So soft thro' evening's air had breathed That choir of youthful voices wreathed In many-linked harmony, That boats then hurrying o'er the sea Paused when they reached this fairy shore, And lingered till the strain was o'er.

Of those young maids who've met to fleet In song and dance this evening's hours, Far happier now the bosoms beat Than when they last adorned these bowers; For tidings of glad sound had come, At break of day from the far isles— Tidings like breath of life to some— That Zea's sons would soon wing home, Crowded with the light of Victory's smiles To meet that brightest of all meeds That wait on high, heroic deeds. When gentle eyes that scarce for tears Could trace the warrior's parting track, Shall like a misty morn that clears When the long-absent sun appears Shine out all bliss to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!— More fond of change than a young moon, No joy so new was e'er possest But Youth would leave for newer soon. These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spot Where first they held their evening play As ever fell to fairy's lot To wanton o'er by midnight's ray, Had now exchanged that sheltered scene For a wide glade beside the sea— A lawn whose soft expanse of green Turned to the west sun smilingly As tho' in conscious beauty bright It joyed to give him light for light.

And ne'er did evening more serene Look down from heaven on lovelier scene. Calm lay the flood around while fleet O'er the blue shining element Light barks as if with fairy feet That stirred not the husht waters went; Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'er The blushing wave, with mainsail free, Had put forth from the Attic shore, Or the near Isle of Ebony;— Some, Hydriot barks that deep in caves Beneath Colonna's pillared cliffs, Had all day lurked and o'er the waves Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs. Woe to the craft however fleet These sea-hawks in their course shall meet, Laden with juice of Lesbian vines, Or rich from Naxos' emery mines; For not more sure, when owlets flee O'er the dark crags of Pendelee, Doth the night-falcon mark his prey, Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade Where these young island nymphs are met! Full-orbed yet pure as if no shade Had touched its virgin lustre yet; And freshly bright as if just made By Love's own hands of new-born light Stolen from his mother's star tonight.

On a bold rock that o'er the flood Jutted from that soft glade there stood A Chapel, fronting towards the sea,— Built in some by-gone century,— Where nightly as the seaman's mark When waves rose high or clouds were dark, A lamp bequeathed by some kind Saint Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint. Waking in way-worn men a sigh And prayer to heaven as they went by. 'Twas there, around that rock-built shrine A group of maidens and their sires Had stood to watch the day's decline, And as the light fell o'er their lyres Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea That soft and holy melody.

But lighter thoughts and lighter song Now woo the coming hours along. For mark, where smooth the herbage lies, Yon gay pavilion curtained deep With silken folds thro' which bright eyes From time to time are seen to peep; While twinkling lights that to and fro Beneath those veils like meteors go, Tell of some spells at work and keep Young fancies chained in mute suspense, Watching what next may shine from thence, Nor long the pause ere hands unseen That mystic curtain backward drew, And all that late but shone between In half-caught gleams now burst to view.

A picture 'twas of the early days Of glorious Greece ere yet those rays Of rich, immortal Mind were hers That made mankind her worshippers; While yet unsung her landscapes shone With glory lent by heaven alone; Nor temples crowned her nameless hills, Nor Muse immortalized her rills; Nor aught but the mute poesy Of sun and stars and shining sea Illumed that land of bards to be. While prescient of the gifted race That yet would realm so blest adorn, Nature took pains to deck the place Where glorious Art was to be born.

Such was the scene that mimic stage Of Athens and her hills portrayed Athens in her first, youthful age, Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18] Which then adorned her had shone down The glory of earth's loftiest crown. While yet undreamed, her seeds of Art Lay sleeping in the marble mine— Sleeping till Genius bade them start To all but life in shapes divine; Till deified the quarry shone And all Olympus stood in stone!

There in the foreground of that scene, On a soft bank of living green Sate a young nymph with her lap full Of the newly gathered flowers, o'er which She graceful leaned intent to cull All that was there of hue most rich, To form a wreath such as the eye Of her young lover who stood by, With pallet mingled fresh might choose To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was formed; the maiden raised Her speaking eyes to his, while he— Oh not upon the flowers now gazed, But on that bright look's witchery. While, quick as if but then the thought Like light had reached his soul, he caught His pencil up and warm and true As life itself that love-look drew: And, as his raptured task went on, And forth each kindling feature shone, Sweet voices thro' the moonlight air From lips as moonlight fresh and pure Thus hailed the bright dream passing there, And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19]

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove Her garland mid the summer bowers, There stood a youth with eyes of love To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skilled in Painting's art, But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor knew what magic hues the heart Can shed o'er Nature's charms till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose And sketched the rays that light the brook; But what were these or what were those To woman's blush, to woman's look? "Oh, if such magic power there be, "This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, "To paint that living light I see "And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer as soon as breathed was heard; His pallet touched by Love grew warm, And Painting saw her hues transferred From lifeless flowers to woman's form. Still as from tint to tint he stole, The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul, Where only colors glowed before.

Then first carnations learned to speak And lilies into life were brought; While mantling on the maiden's cheek Young roses kindled into thought. Then hyacinths their darkest dyes Upon the locks of Beauty threw; And violets transformed to eyes Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love to whom we owe, All that's fair and bright below. Song was cold and Painting dim Till Song and Painting learned from him.

* * * * *

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer Of gentle voices old and young Rose from the groups that stood to hear This tale of yore so aptly sung; And while some nymphs in haste to tell The workers of that fairy spell How crowned with praise their task had been Stole in behind the curtained scene, The rest in happy converse strayed— Talking that ancient love-tale o'er— Some to the groves that skirt the glade, Some to the chapel by the shore, To look what lights were on the sea. And think of the absent silently.

But soon that summons known so well Thro' bower and hall in Eastern lands, Whose sound more sure than gong or bell Lovers and slaves alike commands,— The clapping of young female hands, Calls back the groups from rock and field To see some new-formed scene revealed;— And fleet and eager down the slopes Of the green glades like antelopes When in their thirst they hear the sound Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene—a waste Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray; An ancient well, whereon were traced The warning words, for such as stray Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20] While near it from the night-ray screened, And like his bells in husht repose, A camel slept—young as if weaned When last the star Canopus rose.[21]

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;— While nearer lay fast slumbering too In a rude tent with brow serene A youth whose cheeks of wayworn hue And pilgrim-bonnet told the tale That he had been to Mecca's Vale: Haply in pleasant dreams, even now Thinking the long wished hour is come When o'er the well-known porch at home His hand shall hang the aloe bough— Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]

But brief his dream—for now the call Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, "Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up all The widely slumbering caravan; And thus meanwhile to greet the ear Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, The song of one who lingering near Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound Wakes the slumbering camp around; Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone, Armed sleeper, up, and on! Long and weary is our way O'er the burning sands to-day; But to pilgrim's homeward feet Even the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night, Looking up to heaven's light, Hearing but the watchman's tone Faintly chanting "God is one,"[24] Oh what thoughts then o'er us come Of our distant village home, Where that chant when evening sets Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!—soon shall signal lights, Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights, Kindling quick from man to man, Hail our coming caravan:[25] Think what bliss that hour will be! Looks of home again to see, And our names again to hear Murmured out by voices dear.

* * * * *

So past the desert dream away, Fleeting as his who heard this lay, Nor long the pause between, nor moved The spell-bound audience from that spot; While still as usual Fancy roved On to the joy that yet was not;— Fancy who hath no present home, But builds her bower in scenes to come, Walking for ever in a light That flows from regions out of sight.

But see by gradual dawn descried A mountain realm-rugged as e'er Upraised to heaven its summits bare, Or told to earth with frown of pride That Freedom's falcon nest was there, Too high for hand of lord or king To hood her brow, or chain her wing.

'Tis Maina's land—her ancient hills, The abode of nymphs—her countless rills And torrents in their downward dash Shining like silver thro' the shade Of the sea-pine and flowering ash— All with a truth so fresh portrayed As wants but touch of life to be A world of warm reality.

And now light bounding forth a band Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance— Nymphs with their lovers hand in hand Linked in the Ariadne dance; And while, apart from that gay throng, A minstrel youth in varied song Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills Of these wild children of the hills, The rest by turns or fierce or gay As war or sport inspires the lay Follow each change that wakes the strings And act what thus the lyrist sings:—

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's, His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die, Or should the sound of hostile drum Proclaim below, "We come—we come," Each crag that towers in air Gives answer, "Come who dare!" While like bees from dell and dingle, Swift the swarming warriors mingle, And their cry "Hurra!" will be, "Hurra, to victory!"

Then when battle's hour is over See the happy mountain lover With the nymph who'll soon be bride Seated blushing by his side,— Every shadow of his lot In her sunny smile forgot. Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's. His home is near the sky, Where throned above this world he hears Its strife at distance die. Nor only thus thro' summer suns His blithe existence cheerly runs— Even winter bleak and dim Brings joyous hours to him; When his rifle behind him flinging He watches the roe-buck springing, And away, o'er the hills away Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest when night is closing, By the kindled hearth reposing, To his rebeck's drowsy song, He beguiles the hour along; Or provoked by merry glances To a brisker movement dances, Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain, He dreams o'er chase and dance again, Dreams, dreams them o'er again.

* * * * *

As slow that minstrel at the close Sunk while he sung to feigned repose, Aptly did they whose mimic art Followed the changes of his lay Portray the lull, the nod, the start, Thro' which as faintly died away His lute and voice, the minstrel past, Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er Their startled ears—song that at first As solemnly the night-wind bore Across the wave its mournful burst, Seemed to the fancy like a dirge Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause The wondering nymphs; and as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws, With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy? Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark which now Courses the bright waves swift along And soon perhaps beneath the brow Of the Saint's Bock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed 'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence, Flew to the rock and saw from thence A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide, Whose shadow as it swept the spray Scattered the moonlight's smiles away. Soon as the mariners saw that throng From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slacked their sail and song, And while their pinnace idly rolled On the light surge, these tidings told:—

'Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they came— Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame That e'er in life's young glory set!— And now were on their mournful way, Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;— News that would cloud even Freedom's ray And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain, Out spread the galliot's wings again; And as she sped her swift career Again that Hymn rose on the ear— "Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!" As oft 'twas sung in ages flown Of him, the Athenian, who to shed A tyrant's blood poured out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no. Thy soul to realms above us fled Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head Still lights this world below. Thou art not dead—thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread And flowers ethereal blow, Thy god-like Spirit now is led, Thy lip with life ambrosial fed Forgets all taste of woe. Thou art not dead—thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread Which struck the immortal blow, Throughout all time with leaves unshed— The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread— Round Freedom's shrine shall grow. Thou art not dead—thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled, Tho' quenched the vital glow, Their memory lights a flame instead, Which even from out the narrow bed Of death its beams shall throw. Thou art not dead—thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said, From age to age shall go, Long as the oak and ivy wed, As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head, Or Helle's waters flow. Thou art not dead—thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

* * * * *

'Mong those who lingered listening there,— Listening with ear and eye as long As breath of night could towards them bear A murmur of that mournful song,— A few there were in whom the lay Had called up feelings far too sad To pass with the brief strain away, Or turn at once to theme more glad; And who in mood untuned to meet The light laugh of the happie train, Wandered to seek some moonlight seat Where they might rest, in converse sweet, Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night To sadness lent more soothing light. On one side in the dark blue sky Lonely and radiant was the eye Of Jove himself, while on the other 'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed, The young moon like the Roman mother Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around, A pensive maid—one who, tho' young, Had known what 'twas to see unwound The ties by which her heart had clung— Wakened her soft tamboura's sound, And to its faint accords thus sung:—

SONG.

Calm as beneath its mother's eyes In sleep the smiling infant lies, So watched by all the stars of night Yon landscape sleeps in light. And while the night-breeze dies away, Like relics of some faded strain, Loved voices, lost for many a day, Seem whispering round again. Oh youth! oh love! ye dreams that shed Such glory once—where are ye fled?

Pure ray of light that down the sky Art pointing like an angel's wand, As if to guide to realms that lie In that bright sea beyond: Who knows but in some brighter deep Than even that tranquil, moonlit main, Some land may lie where those who weep Shall wake to smile again! With cheeks that had regained their power And play of smiles,—and each bright eye Like violets after morning's shower The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wandering nymphs their path retrace, And reach the spot with rapture new Just as the veils asunder flew And a fresh vision burst to view.

There by her own bright Attic flood, The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood;— Not as she haunts the sage's dreams, With brow unveiled, divine, severe; But softened as on bards she beams When fresh from Poesy's high sphere A music not her own she brings, And thro' the veil which Fancy flings O'er her stern features gently sings.

But who is he—that urchin nigh, With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropt from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid with eye So full of thought for one so young?— That child—but, silence! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:—

SONG.

As Love one summer eve was straying, Who should he see at that soft hour But young Minerva gravely playing Her flute within an olive bower. I need not say, 'tis Love's opinion That grave or merry, good or ill, The sex all bow to his dominion, As woman will be woman still.

Tho' seldom yet the boy hath given To learned dames his smiles or sighs, So handsome Pallas looked that even Love quite forgot the maid was wise. Besides, a youth of his discerning Knew well that by a shady rill At sunset hour whate'er her learning A woman will be woman still.

Her flute he praised in terms extatic,— Wishing it dumb, nor cared how soon.— For Wisdom's notes, howe'er chromatic, To Love seem always out of tune. But long as he found face to flatter, The nymph found breath to shake and thrill; As, weak or wise—it doesn't matter— Woman at heart is woman still.

Love changed his plan, with warmth exclaiming, "How rosy was her lips' soft dye!" And much that flute the flatterer blaming, For twisting lips so sweet awry. The nymph looked down, beheld her features Reflected in the passing rill, And started, shocked—for, ah, ye creatures! Even when divine you're women still.

Quick from the lips it made so odious. That graceless flute the Goddess took And while yet filled with breath melodious, Flung it into the glassy brook; Where as its vocal life was fleeting Adown the current, faint and shrill, 'Twas heard in plaintive tone repeating, "Woman, alas, vain woman still!"

* * * * *

An interval of dark repose— Such as the summer lightning knows, Twixt flash and flash, as still more bright The quick revealment comes and goes, Opening each time the veils of night, To show within a world of light— Such pause, so brief, now past between This last gay vision and the scene Which now its depth of light disclosed. A bower it seemed, an Indian bower, Within whose shade a nymph reposed, Sleeping away noon's sunny hour— Lovely as she, the Sprite, who weaves Her mansion of sweet Durva leaves, And there, as Indian legends say, Dreams the long summer hours away. And mark how charmed this sleeper seems With some hid fancy—she, too, dreams! Oh for a wizard's art to tell The wonders that now bless her sight! 'Tis done—a truer, holier spell Than e'er from wizard's lip yet fell. Thus brings her vision all to light:—

SONG.

"Who comes so gracefully "Gliding along "While the blue rivulet "Sleeps to her song; "Song richly vying "With the faint sighing "Which swans in dying "Sweetly prolong?"

So sung the shepherd-boy By the stream's side, Watching that fairy-boat Down the flood glide, Like a bird winging, Thro' the waves bringing That Syren, singing To the husht tide.

"Stay," said the shepherd-boy, "Fairy-boat, stay, "Linger, sweet minstrelsy, "Linger a day." But vain his pleading, Past him, unheeding, Song and boat, speeding, Glided away.

So to our youthful eyes Joy and hope shone; So while we gazed on them Fast they flew on;— Like flowers declining Even in the twining, One moment shining. And the next gone!

* * * * *

Soon as the imagined dream went by, Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye Turned to the clouds as tho' some boon She waited from that sun-bright dome, And marvelled that it came not soon As her young thoughts would have it come.

But joy is in her glance!—the wing Of a white bird is seen above; And oh, if round his neck he bring The long-wished tidings from her love, Not half so precious in her eyes Even that high-omened bird[26] would be. Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies To wear a crown of royalty.

She had herself last evening sent A winged messenger whose flight Thro' the clear, roseate element, She watched till lessening out of sight Far to the golden West it went, Wafting to him, her distant love, A missive in that language wrought Which flowers can speak when aptly wove, Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.

And now—oh speed of pinion, known To Love's light messengers alone I— Ere yet another evening takes Its farewell of the golden lakes, She sees another envoy fly, With the wished answer, thro' the sky.

SONG.

Welcome sweet bird, thro' the sunny air winging, Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea, Like Seba's dove on thy snowy neck bringing Love's written vows from my lover to me. Oh, in thy absence what hours did I number!— Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?" But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber, And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.

Yet dost thou droop—even now while I utter Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away; Cheer thee, my bird—were it life's ebbing flutter. This fondling bosom should woo it to stay, But no—thou'rt dying—thy last task is over— Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me! The smiles thou hast wakened by news from my lover, Will now all be turned into weeping for thee.

* * * * *

While thus this scene of song (their last For the sweet summer season) past, A few presiding nymphs whose care Watched over all invisibly, As do those guardian sprites of air Whose watch we feel but cannot see, Had from the circle—scarcely missed, Ere they were sparkling there again— Glided like fairies to assist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From the stray glance of curious eyes, A feast of fruits and wines was laid— Soon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light Steering thro' Heaven, as tho' she bore In safety thro' that deep of night Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, To some remote immortal shore, Had half-way sped her glorious way, When round reclined on hillocks green In groups beneath that tranquil ray, The Zeans at their feast were seen. Gay was the picture—every maid Whom late the lighted scene displayed, Still in her fancy garb arrayed;— The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here Beside the nymph of India's sky; While there the Mainiote mountaineer Whispered in young Minerva's ear, And urchin Love stood laughing by.

Meantime the elders round the board, By mirth and wit themselves made young, High cups of juice Zacynthian poured, And while the flask went round thus sung:—

SONG.

Up with the sparkling brimmer, Up to the crystal rim; Let not a moonbeam glimmer 'Twixt the flood and brim. When hath the world set eyes on Aught to match this light, Which o'er our cup's horizon Dawns in bumpers bright?

Truth in a deep well lieth— So the wise aver; But Truth the fact denieth— Water suits not her. No, her abode's in brimmers, Like this mighty cup— Waiting till we, good swimmers, Dive to bring her up.

* * * * *

Thus circled round the song of glee, And all was tuneful mirth the while, Save on the cheeks of some whose smile As fixt they gaze upon the sea, Turns into paleness suddenly! What see they there? a bright blue light That like a meteor gliding o'er The distant wave grows on the sight, As tho' 'twere winged to Zea's shore. To some, 'mong those who came to gaze, It seemed the night-light far away Of some lone fisher by the blaze Of pine torch luring on his prey; While others, as 'twixt awe and mirth They breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name, Vowed that such light was not of earth But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame Which mariners see on sail or mast When Death is coming in the blast. While marvelling thus they stood, a maid Who sate apart with downcast eye, Not yet had like the rest surveyed That coming light which now was nigh, Soon as it met her sight, with cry Of pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!" Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying by The assembled throng, rushed towards the sea. At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed, All stood like statues mute and gazed Into each other's eyes to seek What meant such mood in maid so meek?

Till now, the tale was known to few, But now from lip to lip it flew:— A youth, the flower of all the band, Who late had left this sunny shore, When last he kist that maiden's hand, Lingering to kiss it o'er and o'er. By his sad brow too plainly told The ill-omened thought which crost him then, That once those hands should lose their hold, They ne'er would meet on earth again! In vain his mistress sad as he, But with a heart from Self as free As generous woman's only is, Veiled her own fears to banish his:— With frank rebuke but still more vain, Did a rough warrior who stood by Call to his mind this martial strain, His favorite once, ere Beauty's eye Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:—

SONG.

March! nor heed those arms that hold thee, Tho' so fondly close they come; Closer still will they enfold thee When thou bring'st fresh laurels home. Dost thou dote on woman's brow? Dost thou live but in her breath? March!—one hour of victory now Wins thee woman's smile till death.

Oh what bliss when war is over Beauty's long-missed smile to meet. And when wreaths our temples cover Lay them shining at her feet. Who would not that hour to reach Breathe out life's expiring sigh,— Proud as waves that on the beach Lay their war-crests down and die.

There! I see thy soul is burning— She herself who clasps thee so Paints, even now, thy glad returning, And while clasping bids thee go. One deep sigh to passion given, One last glowing tear and then— March!—nor rest thy sword till Heaven Brings thee to those arms again.

* * * * *

Even then ere loath their hands could part A promise the youth gave which bore Some balm unto the maiden's heart, That, soon as the fierce fight was o'er, To home he'd speed, if safe and free— Nay, even if dying, still would come, So the blest word of "Victory!" Might be the last he'd breathe at home. "By day," he cried, "thou'lt know my bark; "But should I come thro' midnight dark, "A blue light on the prow shall tell "That Greece hath won and all is well!"

Fondly the maiden every night, Had stolen to seek that promised light; Nor long her eyes had now been turned From watching when the signal burned. Signal of joy—for her, for all— Fleetly the boat now nears the land, While voices from the shore-edge call For tidings of the long-wished band.

Oh the blest hour when those who've been Thro' peril's paths by land or sea Locked in our arms again are seen Smiling in glad security; When heart to heart we fondly strain, Questioning quickly o'er and o'er— Then hold them off to gaze affain And ask, tho' answered oft before, If they indeed are ours once more?

Such is the scene so full of joy Which welcomes now this warrior-boy, As fathers, sisters, friends all run Bounding to meet him—all but one Who, slowest on his neck to fall, Is yet the happiest of them all.

And now behold him circled round With beaming faces at that board, While cups with laurel foliage crowned, Are to the coming warriors poured— Coming, as he, their herald, told, With blades from victory scarce yet cold, With hearts untouched by Moslem steel And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.

"Ere morn," said he,—and while he spoke Turned to the east, where clear and pale The star of dawn already broke— "We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!" Then wherefore part? all, all agree To wait them here beneath this bower; And thus, while even amidst their glee, Each eye is turned to watch the sea, With song they cheer the anxious hour.

SONG.

"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boy As he saw it spring bright from the earth, And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy, To witness and hallow its birth. The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale; "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" every Spirit exclaimed "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew, While a light on the vine-leaves there broke In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew T'was the light from his lips as he spoke. "Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me," he cried, "And the fount of Wit never can fail:" "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" hills and valleys reply, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire Each tendril and cluster it wore, From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, As made the tree tremble all o'er. Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky, Such a soul-giving odor inhale: "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" all re-echo the cry, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die, Came to crown the bright hour with his ray; And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye, When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;— A laugh of the heart which was echoed around Till like music it swelled on the gale: "T is the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" laughing myriads resound, "Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

[1] "Nerium Oleander. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days."—Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey.

[2] Lonicera caprifolium, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.

[3] Cuscuta europoea. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."— Walpole's Turkey.

[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals."—Clarke's Travels.

[5] Now Santa Maura—the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.

[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks."—Goodisson's Ionian Isles.

[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika."

[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave."—Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure,"

[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.

[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country.

[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks."—Williams's Travels in Greece.

[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.

[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name."

[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears."

[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. De Guys tells us that he has seen "the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them."

[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification."—Clarke.

[18] "Violet-crowned Athens."—Pindar.

[19] The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, Lib. 35 c. 40.

[20] The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill In Barbary, which is received into a large basin called Shrub wee krub, "Drink and away"— there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.

[21] The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel; when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk."—Richardson.

[22] "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey."—Hasselquist.

[23] This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:—"For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, 'Bind on your burden'?"

[24] The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one," etc.

[25] "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."

[26] the Hume.

[27] The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.



ALCIPHRON: A FRAGMENT.



LETTER I.

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS.

Well may you wonder at my flight From those fair Gardens in whose bowers Lingers whate'er of wise and bright, Of Beauty's smile or Wisdom's light, Is left to grace this world of ours. Well may my comrades as they roam On such sweet eyes as this inquire Why I have left that happy home Where all is found that all desire, And Time hath wings that never tire: Where bliss in all the countless shapes That Fancy's self to bliss hath given Comes clustering round like roadside grapes That woo the traveller's lip at even; Where Wisdom flings not joy away— As Pallas in the stream they say Once flung her flute—but smiling owns That woman's lip can send forth tones Worth all the music of those spheres So many dream of but none hears; Where Virtue's self puts on so well Her sister Pleasure's smile that, loath From either nymph apart to dwell, We finish by embracing both. Yes, such the place of bliss, I own From all whose charms I just have flown; And even while thus to thee I write, And by the Nile's dark flood recline, Fondly, in thought I wing my flight Back to those groves and gardens bright, And often think by this sweet light How lovelily they all must shine; Can see that graceful temple throw Down the green slope its lengthened shade, While on the marble steps below There sits some fair Athenian maid, Over some favorite volume bending; And by her side a youthful sage Holds back the ringlets that descending Would else o'ershadow all the page. But hence such thoughts!—nor let me grieve O'er scenes of joy that I but leave, As the bird quits awhile its nest To come again with livelier zest.

And now to tell thee—what I fear Thou'lt gravely smile at—why I'm here Tho' thro' my life's short, sunny dream, I've floated without pain or care Like a light leaf down pleasure's stream, Caught in each sparkling eddy there; Tho' never Mirth awaked a strain That my heart echoed not again; Yet have I felt, when even most gay, Sad thoughts—I knew not whence or why— Suddenly o'er my spirit fly, Like clouds that ere we've time to say "How bright the sky is!" shade the sky. Sometimes so vague, so undefined Were these strange darkenings of my mind— "While naught but joy around me beamed So causelessly they've come and flown, That not of life or earth they seemed, But shadows from some world unknown. More oft, however, 'twas the thought How soon that scene with all its play Of life and gladness must decay— Those lips I prest, the hands I caught— Myself—the crowd that mirth had brought Around me—swept like weeds away!

This thought it was that came to shed O'er rapture's hour its worst alloys; And close as shade with sunshine wed Its sadness with my happiest joys. Oh, but for this disheartening voice Stealing amid our mirth to say That all in which we most rejoice Ere night may be the earthworm's prey— But for this bitter—only this— Full as the world is brimmed with bliss, And capable as feels my soul Of draining to its dregs the whole, I should turn earth to heaven and be, If bliss made Gods, a Deity?

Thou know'st that night—the very last That 'mong my Garden friends I past— When the School held its feast of mirth To celebrate our founder's birth. And all that He in dreams but saw When he set Pleasure on the throne Of this bright world and wrote her law In human hearts was felt and known— Not in unreal dreams but true, Substantial joy as pulse e'er knew— By hearts and bosoms, that each felt Itself the realm where Pleasure dwelt.

That night when all our mirth was o'er, The minstrels silent, and the feet Of the young maidens heard no more— So stilly was the time, so sweet, And such a calm came o'er that scene, Where life and revel late had been— Lone as the quiet of some bay From which the sea hath ebbed away— That still I lingered, lost in thought, Gazing upon the stars of night, Sad and intent as if I sought Some mournful secret in their light; And asked them mid that silence why Man, glorious man, alone must die While they, less wonderful than he, Shine on thro' all eternity.

That night—thou haply may'st forget Its loveliness—but 'twas a night To make earth's meanest slave regret Leaving a world so soft and bright. On one side in the dark blue sky Lonely and radiant was the eye Of Jove himself, while on the other, 'Mong stars that came out one by one, The young moon—like the Roman mother Among her living jewels—shone. "Oh that from yonder orbs," I thought, "Pure and eternal as they are, "There could to earth some power be brought, "Some charm with their own essence fraught "To make man deathless as a star, "And open to his vast desires "A course, as boundless and sublime "As that which waits those comet-fires, "That burn and roam throughout all time!"

While thoughts like these absorbed my mind, That weariness which earthly bliss However sweet still leaves behind, As if to show how earthly 'tis, Came lulling o'er me and I laid My limbs at that fair statue's base— That miracle, which Art hath made Of all the choice of Nature's grace— To which so oft I've knelt and sworn. That could a living maid like her Unto this wondering world be born, I would myself turn worshipper.

Sleep came then o'er me—and I seemed To be transported far away To a bleak desert plain where gleamed One single, melancholy ray. Throughout that darkness dimly shed From a small taper in the hand Of one who pale as are the dead Before me took his spectral stand, And said while awfully a smile Came o'er the wanness of his cheek— "Go and beside the sacred Nile "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek."

Soon as he spoke these words the hue Of death o'er all his features grew Like the pale morning when o'er night She gains the victory full of light; While the small torch he held became A glory in his hand whose flame Brightened the desert suddenly, Even to the far horizon's line— Along whose level I could see Gardens and groves that seemed to shine As if then o'er them freshly played A vernal rainbow's rich cascade; And music floated every where, Circling, as 'twere itself the air, And spirits on whose wings the hue Of heaven still lingered round me flew, Till from all sides such splendors broke, That with the excess of light I woke!

Such was my dream;—and I confess Tho' none of all our creedless school E'er conned, believed, or reverenced less The fables of the priest-led fool Who tells us of a soul, a mind, Separate and pure within us shrined, Which is to live—ah, hope too bright!— For ever in yon fields of light; Who fondly thinks the guardian eyes Of Gods are on him—as if blest And blooming in their own blue skies The eternal Gods were not too wise To let weak man disturb their rest!— Tho' thinking of such creeds as thou And all our Garden sages think, Yet is there something, I allow, In dreams like this—a sort of link With worlds unseen which from the hour I first could lisp my thoughts till now Hath mastered me with spell-like power.

And who can tell, as we're combined Of various atoms—some refined, Like those that scintillate and play In the fixt stars—some gross as they That frown in clouds or sleep in clay— Who can be sure but 'tis the best And brightest atoms of our frame, Those most akin to stellar flame, That shine out thus, when we're at rest;— Even as the stars themselves whose light Comes out but in the silent night. Or is it that there lurks indeed Some truth in Man's prevailing creed And that our Guardians from on high Come in that pause from toil and sin To put the senses' curtain by And on the wakeful soul look in!

Vain thought!—but yet, howe'er it be, Dreams more than once have proved to me Oracles, truer far than Oak Or Dove or Tripod ever spoke. And 'twas the words—thou'lt hear and smile— The words that phantom seemed to speak— "Go and beside the sacred Nile "You'll find the Eternal Life you seek"— That haunting me by night, by day, At length as with the unseen hand Of Fate itself urged me away From Athens to this Holy Land; Where 'mong the secrets still untaught, The mysteries that as yet nor sun Nor eye hath reached—oh, blessed thought!— May sleep this everlasting one.

Farewell—when to our Garden friends Thou talk'st of the wild dream that sends The gayest of their school thus far, Wandering beneath Canopus' star, Tell them that wander where he will Or howsoe'er they now condemn His vague and vain pursuit he still Is worthy of the School and them;— Still all their own—nor e'er forgets Even while his heart and soul pursue The Eternal Light which never sets, The many meteor joys that do, But seeks them, hails them with delight Where'er they meet his longing sight. And if his life must wane away Like other lives at least the day, The hour it lasts shall like a fire With incense fed in sweets expire.



LETTER II.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

Memphis.

'Tis true, alas—the mysteries and the lore I came to study on this, wondrous shore. Are all forgotten in the new delights. The strange, wild joys that fill my days and nights. Instead of dark, dull oracles that speak From subterranean temples, those I seek Come from the breathing shrines where Beauty lives, And Love, her priest, the soft responses gives. Instead of honoring Isis in those rites At Coptos held, I hail her when she lights Her first young crescent on the holy stream— When wandering youths and maidens watch her beam And number o'er the nights she hath to run, Ere she again embrace her bridegroom sun. While o'er some mystic leaf that dimly lends A clew into past times the student bends, And by its glimmering guidance learns to tread Back thro' the shadowy knowledge of the dead— The only skill, alas, I yet can claim Lies in deciphering some new loved-one's name— Some gentle missive hinting time and place, In language soft as Memphian reed can trace.

And where—oh where's the heart that could withstand The unnumbered witcheries of this sun-born land, Where first young Pleasure's banner was unfurled And Love hath temples ancient as the world! Where mystery like the veil by Beauty worn Hides but to win and shades but to adorn; Where that luxurious melancholy born Of passion and of genius sheds a gloom Making joy holy;—where the bower and tomb Stand side by side and Pleasure learns from Death The instant value of each moment's breath. Couldst thou but see how like a poet's dream This lovely land now looks!—the glorious stream That late between its banks was seen to glide 'Mong shrines and marble cities on each side Glittering like jewels strung along a chain Hath now sent forth its waters, and o'er plain And valley like a giant from his bed Rising with outstretched limbs hath grandly spread. While far as sight can reach beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest our sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes And high-built temples fit to be the homes Of mighty Gods, and pyramids whose hour Outlasts all time above the waters tower!

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make One theatre of this vast, peopled lake, Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Of life and motion ever moves and lives. Here, up the steps of temples from the wave Ascending in procession slow and grave. Priests in white garments go, with sacred wands And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands; While there, rich barks—fresh from those sunny tracts Far off beyond the sounding cataracts— Glide with their precious lading to the sea, Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros ivory, Gems from the Isle of Meroe, and those grains Of gold washed down by Abyssinian rains. Here where the waters wind into a bay Shadowy and cool some pilgrims on their way To Sais or Bubastus among beds Of lotus flowers that close above their heads Push their light barks, and there as in a bower, Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour; Oft dipping in the Nile, when faint with heat, That leaf from which its waters drink most sweet.— While haply not far off beneath a bank Of blossoming acacias many a prank Is played in the cool current by a train Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she,[1] whose chain Around two conquerors of the world was cast, But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

For oh! believe not them who dare to brand As poor in charms the women of this land. Tho' darkened by that sun whose spirit flows Thro' every vein and tinges as it goes, 'Tis but the embrowning of the fruit that tells How rich within the soul of ripeness dwells— The hue their own dark sanctuaries wear, Announcing heaven in half-caught glimpses there. And never yet did tell-tale looks set free The secret of young hearts more tenderly. Such eyes!—long, shadowy, with that languid fall Of the fringed lids which may be seen in all Who live beneath the sun's too ardent rays— Lending such looks as on their marriage days Young maids cast down before a bridegroom's gaze! Then for their grace—mark but the nymph-like shapes Of the young village girls, when carrying grapes From green Anthylla or light urns of flowers— Not our own Sculpture in her happiest hours E'er imaged forth even at the touch of him[2] Whose touch was life, more luxury of limb! Then, canst thou wonder if mid scenes like these I should forget all graver mysteries, All lore but Love's, all secrets but that best In heaven or earth, the art of being blest! Yet are there times—tho' brief I own their stay, Like summer-clouds that shine themselves away— Moments of gloom, when even these pleasures pall Upon my saddening heart and I recall That garden dream—that promise of a power, Oh, were there such!—to lengthen out life's hour, On, on, as thro' a vista far away Opening before us into endless day! And chiefly o'er my spirit did this thought Come on that evening—bright as ever brought Light's golden farewell to the world—when first The eternal pyramids of Memphis burst Awfully on my sight-standing sublime Twixt earth and heaven, the watch-towers of Time, From whose lone summit when his reign hath past From earth for ever he will look his last!

There hung a calm and solemn sunshine round Those mighty monuments, a hushing sound In the still air that circled them which stole Like music of past times into my soul. I thought what myriads of the wise and brave And beautiful had sunk into the grave, Since earth first saw these wonders—and I said "Are things eternal only for the Dead? "Hath Man no loftier hope than this which dooms "His only lasting trophies to be tombs? "But 'tis not so—earth, heaven, all nature shows "He may become immortal—may unclose "The wings within him wrapt, and proudly rise "Redeemed from earth, a creature of the skies!

"And who can say, among the written spells "From Hermes' hand that in these shrines and cells "Have from the Flood lay hid there may not be "Some secret clew to immortality, "Some amulet whose spell can keep life's fire "Awake within us never to expire! "'Tis known that on the Emerald Table, hid "For ages in yon loftiest pyramid, "The Thrice-Great[3] did himself engrave of old "The chymic mystery that gives endless gold. "And why may not this mightier secret dwell "Within the same dark chambers? who can tell "But that those kings who by the written skill "Of the Emerald Table called forth gold at will "And quarries upon quarries heapt and hurled, "To build them domes that might outstand the world— "Who knows, but that the heavenlier art which shares "The life of Gods with man was also theirs— "That they themselves, triumphant o'er the power "Of fate and death, are living at this hour; "And these, the giant homes they still possess. "Not tombs but everlasting palaces "Within whose depths hid from the world above "Even now they wander with the few they love, "Thro' subterranean gardens, by a light "Unknown on earth which hath nor dawn nor night! "Else, why those deathless structures? why the grand "And hidden halls that undermine this land? "Why else hath none of earth e'er dared to go "Thro' the dark windings of that realm below, "Nor aught from heaven itself except the God "Of Silence thro' those endless labyrinths trod?" Thus did I dream—wild, wandering dreams, I own, But such as haunt me ever, if alone, Or in that pause 'twixt joy and joy I be, Like a ship husht between two waves at sea. Then do these spirit whisperings like the sound Of the Dark Future come appalling round; Nor can I break the trance that holds me then, Till high o'er Pleasure's surge I mount again!

Even now for new adventure, new delight, My heart is on the wing;—this very night, The Temple on that island halfway o'er From Memphis' gardens to the eastern shore Sends up its annual rite[4] to her whose beams Bring the sweet time of night-flowers and dreams; The nymph who dips her urn in silent lakes And turns to silvery dew each drop it takes;— Oh! not our Dian of the North who chains In vestal ice the current of young veins, But she who haunts the gay Bubastian[5] grove And owns she sees from her bright heaven above, Nothing on earth to match that heaven but Love. Think then what bliss will be abroad to-night!— Besides those sparkling nymphs who meet the sight Day after day, familiar as the sun, Coy buds of beauty yet unbreathed upon And all the hidden loveliness that lies,— Shut up as are the beams of sleeping eyes Within these twilight shrines—tonight shall be Let loose like birds for this festivity! And mark, 'tis nigh; already the sun bids His evening farewell to the Pyramids. As he hath done age after age till they Alone on earth seem ancient as his ray; While their great shadows stretching from the light Look like the first colossal steps of Night Stretching across the valley to invade The distant hills of porphyry with their shade. Around, as signals of the setting beam, Gay, gilded flags on every housetop gleam: While, hark!—from all the temples a rich swell Of music to the Moon—farewell—farewell.

[1] Cleopatra.

[2] Apellas.

[3] The Hermes Trismegistus.

[4] The great Festival of the Moon.

[5] Bubastis, or Isis, was the Diana of the Egyptian mythology.



LETTER III.

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME.

Memphis.

There is some star—or may it be That moon we saw so near last night— Which comes athwart my destiny For ever with misleading light. If for a moment pure and wise And calm I feel there quick doth fall A spark from some disturbing eyes, That thro' my heart, soul, being flies, And makes a wildfire of it all. I've seen—oh, Cleon, that this earth Should e'er have given such beauty birth!— That man—but, hold—hear all that past Since yester-night from first to last.