University of Virginia Library


1

EVENINGS IN GREECE.


5

FIRST EVENING.

The sky is bright—the breeze is fair,
“And the mainsail flowing, full and free—
“Our farewell word is woman's pray'r,
“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!”

6

Thus sung they from the bark, that now
Turn'd to the sea its gallant prow,
Bearing within it 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 flow'r,
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—
Though 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!—

7

Now may you quench those signal fires,
Whose light they long look'd 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, bless'd by heaven, the Cross shall sweep
The Crescent from the Ægean 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 wish'd her most to wear;

8

Here bloom'd the laurel-rose , whose wreath
Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shrines,
And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe
Their odour into Zante's wines :—
The splendid woodbine, that, at eve,
To grace their floral diadems,
The lovely maids of Patmos weave :—
And that fair plant, whose tangled stems
Shine like a Nereid's hair , when spread,
Dishevell'd, 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:

9

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 unfurl'd;
While Commerce, from her thousand sails,
Scatters their fruit throughout the world!
 

“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.

Id.

Lonicera Caprifolium, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.

Cuscuta europæa. “From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids.” —Walpole's Turkey.

“The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals.” —Clarke's Travels.

'Twas here—as soon as prayer and sleep
(Those truest friends to all who weep)
Had lighten'd every heart, and made
Ev'n 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;

10

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 gleam'd awhile—
'Twould touch ev'n Moslem heart to see
The sadness that came suddenly
O'er their young brows, when they look'd 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 th' 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.

11

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 tune
Their idle lutes, that now had lain,
For days, without a single strain;—
And others, from the rest apart,
With laugh that told the lighten'd 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, though pleased the while,
Reproach'd her own forgetful smile,
And sigh'd to think she could be gay
Among these maidens there was one,
Who to Leucadia late had been—
Had stood, beneath the evening sun,
On its white towering cliffs, and seen

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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 quench'd the fatal fire,
At once, of both her heart and lyre.
 

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

Mutely they listen'd all—and well
Did the young travell'd maiden tell
Of the dread height to which that steep
Beetles above the eddying deep —
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 call'd up by Love, to grace
The immortal spot, o'er which the last
Bright footsteps of his martyr pass'd!
 

“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 colour and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks.” —Goodisson's Ionian Isles.

See Mr. Goodisson's very interesting description of all these circumstances.


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While fresh to every listener's thought
These legends of Leucadia brought
All that of Sappho's hapless flame
Is kept alive, still watch'd by Fame—
The maiden, tuning her soft lute,
While all the rest stood round her, mute,
Thus sketch'd 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, ev'n 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 stray'd,
She weeping turn'd away, and said,
“Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—
“I cannot weave, as once I wove—

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“So wilder'd 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 lean'd, she said,
“Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—
“I cannot weave, as once I wove—
“So wilder'd is my heart and brain
“With thinking of that youth I love!”
 

I have attempted, in these four lines, to give some idea of that beautiful fragment of Sappho, beginning

Γλυκεια ματερ,
which represents so truly (as Warton remarks) “the languor and listlessness of a person deeply in love.”

A silence follow'd this sweet air,
As each in tender musing stood,
Thinking, with lips that moved in pray'r,
Of Sappho and that fearful flood:

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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 play'd
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
(Though 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
Fill'd up each sighing pause between;
And Love himself might weep to see
What ruin comes where he hath been—
As wither'd still the grass is found
Where fays have danced their merry round—

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Thus simply to the listening throng
She breath'd her melancholy song:—

SONG.

Weeping for thee, my love, through the long day,
Lonely and wearily life wears away.
Weeping for thee, my love, through the long night—
No rest in darkness, no joy in light!
Nought left but Memory, whose dreary tread
Sounds through this ruin'd 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

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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 link'd with feelings, once our own—
With friends or joys 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,
Ev'n under music's melting art;
And one upspringing, with a bound,
From a low bank of flowers, look'd round
With eyes that, though 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.

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SONG.

When the Balaika
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.
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!

19

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 through :
Till stars, looking o'er us
From heaven's high bow'rs,
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.
 

This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it “Balalaika.”

“I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of those groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave.” —Douglas on the Modern Greeks.

“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 partner, 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.”


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How changingly for ever veers
The heart of youth, 'twixt smiles and tears!
Ev'n as in April, the light vane
Now points to sunshine, now to rain.
Instant this lively lay dispell'd
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 ask'd) “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, enlock'd,
“Through the light air they seem'd to flit
“In labyrinthine maze, that mock'd
“The dazzled eye that follow'd it?”
Some call'd aloud “the Fountain Dance!”—
While one young, dark-ey'd Amazon,

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Whose step was air-like, and whose glance
Flash'd, 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
“Learn'd 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!”
 

For a description of the Pyrrhic Dance see De Guys, &c. —It appears from Apuleius (lib. x.) that this war-dance was, among the ancients, sometimes performed by females.

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 armourer's aid,
Fixing it on her rounded arm,
A mimic shield with pride display'd;

22

Then, springing tow'rds a grove that spread
Its canopy of foliage near,
Pluck'd off a lance-like twig, and said,
“To arms, to arms,!” while o'er her head
She waved the light branch, as a spear.
 

See the costume of the Greek women of Natolia in Castellan's Mœurs des Othomans.

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

The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.

Homer, Il. 2. 753.

And now they stepp'd, with measured tread,
Martially, o'er the shining field;

23

Now, to the mimic combat led
(A heroine at each squadron's head),
Struck lance to lance and sword to shield:
While still, through every varying feat,
Their voices, heard in contrast sweet
With some, of deep but soften'd sound,
From lips of aged sires around,
Who smiling watch'd 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, ev'n in the hour of joy,
Thus train'd their steps to war and victory.
“Raise the buckler—poise the lance—
“Now here—now there—retreat—advance!”
Such was the Spartan warriors' dance.

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“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 dawn'd by whose immortal light
They nobly died for thee and liberty!
“Raise the buckler—poise the lance—
“Now here—now there—retreat—advance!”
Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.
 

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.

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,

25

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, watch'd their mimic fight—
“Fond maids! who thus with War can jest—
“Like Love, in Mars'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 Honour'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 track'd the fortunes of the brave—
“Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell
“What glory waits the patriot's grave:”—

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SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day,
A vanquish'd Chief expiring lay,
Upon the sands, with broken sword,
He traced his farewell to the Free;
And, there, the last unfinish'd word
He dying wrote was “Liberty!”
At night a Sea-bird shriek'd the knell
Of him who thus for Freedom fell;
The words he wrote, ere evening came,
Were cover'd by the sounding sea;—
So pass away the cause and name
Of him who dies for Liberty!
That tribute of subdued applause
A charm'd, but timid, audience pays,
That murmur, which a minstrel draws
From hearts, that feel, but fear to praise,
Follow'd this song, and left a pause

27

Of silence after it, that hung
Like a fix'd 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 cluster'd leaves, herself unseen.
And, while that voice, in tones that more
Through feeling than through weakness err'd,
Came, with a stronger sweetness, o'er
Th' attentive ear, this strain was heard:—

SONG.

I saw, from yonder silent cave ,
Two Fountains running, side by side,

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The one was Mem'ry'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 vanish'd dream!”
But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Mem'ry'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 remember'd too!”
 

“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.

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:

29

For such she was—a creature, bright
And delicate as those day-flow'rs,
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 exclaim'd,
And each some matchless favourite 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.

30

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 colours are fleeting,
But those of Sorrow last.
And, while thou bring'st 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, play'd,
To chase the moon's eclipse away ,
But soft and holy—did each maid

31

Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile,
And win back Sorrow to a smile.
 

This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro della Valle tells us, among the Persians.

Not far from this secluded place,
On the sea-shore a ruin stood;—
A relic of th' extinguish'd race,
Who once look'd o'er that foamy flood,
When fair Ioulis , by the light
Of golden sunset, on the sight
Of mariners who sail'd that sea,
Rose, like a city of chrysolite,
Call'd 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—
Form'd, 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—

32

Simonides , whose fame, through years
And ages past, still bright appears—
Like Hesperus, a star of tears!
 

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.”

Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called “tears.”

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

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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 bow'rs?
They are gone—all gone!
The youth, who told his pain in such sweet tone,
That all, who heard him, wish'd his pain their own—
He is gone—he is gone!

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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 , ere sunk the moon,

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To that fair Fountain, by whose stream
Their hearts had form'd so many a dream.
 

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.”

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 ,
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,
Link'd in harmonious dance and song,
Charm'd the unconscious night along;
While holy pilgrims, on their way
To Delos' isle, stood looking on,

36

Enchanted with a scene so gay,
Nor sought their boats, till morning shone.
 

“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 preserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification.” —Clarke.

Such was the scene this lovely glade
And its fair inmates now display'd,
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!

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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 though 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 heav'n's still expanse,
Weave we our mirthful dance,
Daughters of Zea!
Such as, in former days,
Danced they, by Dian's rays,

38

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, nought but Music's strain,
When lovers part in pain,
Soothes, till they meet again,
Oh, Maids of Zea!
 
“Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi
Exercet Diana choros.”

—Virgil.


39

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.

40

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!
 

One of the titles of the Virgin:—“Maria illuminatrix, sive Stella Maris.” —Isidor.

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 mix'd with sunset's fading ray,
And light and song together died.
So soft through evening's air had breath'd
That choir of youthful voices, wreath'd
In many-linked harmony,
That boats, then hurrying o'er the sea,
Paused, when they reach'd this fairy shore,
And linger'd till the strain was o'er.
Of those young maids who've met to fleet
In song and dance this evening's hours,

41

Far happier now the bosoms beat,
Than when they last adorn'd 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,
Crown'd 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, though 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,

42

Had now exchanged that shelter'd scene
For a wide glade beside the sea—
A lawn, whose soft expanse of green
Turn'd to the west sun smilingly,
As though, in conscious beauty bright,
It joy'd 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 stirr'd not the hush'd 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 pillar'd cliffs,
Had all day lurk'd, 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,

43

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-orb'd, yet pure, as if no shade
Had touch'd its virgin lustre yet;
And freshly bright, as if just made
By Love's own hands, of new-born light
Stol'n from his mother's star to-night.
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, bequeath'd 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.

44

'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, curtain'd deep
With silken folds, through 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 chain'd 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

45

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 crown'd her nameless hills,
Nor Muse immortalised 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 portray'd;
Athens, in her first, youthful age,
Ere yet the simple violet braid ,
Which then adorn'd her, had shone down
The glory of earth's loftiest crown.
While yet undream'd, her seeds of Art
Lay sleeping in the marble mine—

46

Sleeping till Genius bade them start
To all but life, in shapes divine;
Till deified the quarry shone
And all Olympus stood in stone!
 

“Violet-crowned Athens.” —Pindar.

There, in the foreground of that scene,
On a soft bank of living green,
Sate a young nymph, with her lap full
Of newly gather'd flowers, o'er which
She graceful lean'd, 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 form'd; the maiden raised
Her speaking eyes to his, while he—
Oh not upon the flowers now gaz'd,
But on that bright look's witchery.
While, quick as if but then the thought,
Like light, had reach'd his soul, he caught
His pencil up, and, warm and true
As life itself, that love-look drew:

47

And, as his raptured task went on,
And forth each kindling feature shone,
Sweet voices, through the moonlight air,
From lips as moonlight fresh and pure,
Thus hail'd the bright dream passing there,
And sung the Birth of Portraiture.
 

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

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 wreath'd the flowers.
The youth was skill'd 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, whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.

48

His hand had pictured many a rose,
And sketch'd 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 pow'r 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 breath'd, was heard;
His pallet, touch'd by Love, grew warm,
And Painting saw her hues transferr'd
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 colours glow'd before.
Then first carnations learn'd 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;

49

And violets, transform'd to eyes,
Inshrin'd 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 learn'd 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 crown'd with praise their task had been,
Stole in behind the curtain'd scene,
The rest, in happy converse stray'd—
Talking that ancient love-tale o'er—
Some, to the groves that skirt the glade,
Some, to the chapel by the shore,

50

To look what lights were on the sea,
And think of the' absent silently.
But soon that summons, known so well
Through 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-form'd scene reveal'd;—
And fleet and eager, down the slopes
Of the green glade, 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!”

51

While, near it, from the night-ray screen'd,
And like his bells, in hush'd repose,
A camel slept—young as if wean'd
When last the star, Canopus, rose.
 

The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill in Barbary, which is received into a large bason called Shrub wee krub, “Drink and away”—there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins, in such places.

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.

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 way-worn hue
And pilgrim-bonnet, told the tale
That he had been to Mecca's Vale:
Haply in pleasant dreams, ev'n now
Thinking the long wish'd hour is come
When, o'er the well-known porch at home,
His hand shall hang the aloe bough—
Trophy of his accomplish'd vow.
 

“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.


52

But brief his dream—for now the call
Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van,
“Bind on your burdens ,” 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 watch'd his slumber, cheerly breaks.
 

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 burdens?’”

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound
Wakes the slumb'ring 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
Ev'n the desert's path is sweet.

53

When we lie at dead of night,
Looking up to heaven's light,
Hearing but the watchman's tone
Faintly chaunting “God is one ,”
Oh what thoughts then o'er us come
Of our distant village home,
Where that chaunt, 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 :
Think what bliss that hour will be!
Looks of home again to see,
And our names again to hear
Murmur'd out by voices dear.
 

The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, “God is one,” &c. &c.

“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.”


54

So pass'd 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 heav'n 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

55

And torrents, in their downward dash,
Shining, like silver, through the shade
Of the sea-pine and flowering ash—
All with a truth so fresh pourtray'd
As wants but touch of life to be
A world of warm reality.
 
------ virginibus bacchata Laconis
Taygeta.

Virg.

And now, light bounding forth, a band
Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance—
Nymphs with their lovers, hand in hand,
Link'd 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:—
 

See, for an account of this dance, De Guy's Travels

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,

56

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 through summer suns
His blithe existence cheerly runs—

57

Ev'n 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 feign'd repose,
Aptly did they, whose mimic art
Follow'd the changes of his lay,

58

Pourtray the lull, the nod, the start,
Through which, as faintly died away
His lute and voice, the minstrel pass'd,
'Till voice and lute lay hush'd 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,
Seem'd 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 enquiring 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,

59

And soon, perhaps, beneath the brow
Of the Saint's Rock will shoot its prow.
Instantly all, with hearts that sigh'd
'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence,
Flew to the rock, and saw from thence
A red-sail'd pinnace tow'rds them glide,
Whose shadow, as it swept the spray,
Scatter'd the moonlight's smiles away.
Soon as the mariners saw that throng
From the cliff gazing, young and old,
Sudden they slack'd their sail and song,
And, while their pinnace idly roll'd
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 through Helle's isles;—
News that would cloud ev'n Freedom's ray,
And sadden Victory 'mid her smiles.

60

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, pour'd out his own.

SONG.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.
Thy soul, to realms above us fled,
Though, 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.

61

Through 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,
Though quench'd the vital glow,
Their memory lights a flame, instead,
Which, ev'n from out the narrow bed
Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

62

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.
 

Φιλταθ' Αρμοδι' ουπω τεθνηκας.

'Mong those who linger'd listening there,—
Listening, with ear and eye, as long
As breath of night could tow'rds them bear
A murmur of that mournful song,—
A few there were, in whom the lay
Had call'd 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 happier train,
Wander'd to seek some moonlight seat
Where they might rest, in converse sweet,
Till vanish'd smiles should come again.

63

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 gleam'd,
The young moon, like the Roman mother
Among her living “jewels,” beamed.
Touch'd by the lovely scenes around,
A pensive maid—one who, though young,
Had known what 'twas to see unwound
The ties by which her heart had clung—
Waken'd 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, watch'd by all the stars of night,
Yon landscape sleeps in light.

64

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, moon-lit main,
Some land may lie, where those who weep
Shall wake to smile again!
With cheeks that had regain'd their power
And play of smiles,—and each bright eye,
Like violets after morning's shower,
The brighter for the tears gone by,

65

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-ey'd Queen of Wisdom stood;—
Not as she haunts the sage's dreams,
With brow unveil'd, divine, severe;
But soften'd, as on bards she beams,
When fresh from Poesy's high sphere,
A music, not her own, she brings,
And, through the veil which Fancy flings
Oer her stern features, gently sings.
But who is he—that urchin nigh,
With quiver on the rose-trees hung,
Who seems just dropp'd 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:—

66

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.
Though seldom yet the boy hath given
To learned dames his smiles or sighs,
So handsome Pallas look'd, 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.

67

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 look'd down, beheld her features
Reflected in the passing rill,
And started, shock'd—for, ah, ye creatures!
Ev'n when divine, you're women still.
Quick from the lips it made so odious,
That graceless flute the Goddess took,
And, while yet fill'd 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!”

68

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 pass'd between
This last gay vision and the scene,
Which now its depth of light disclosed.
A bower it seem'd, 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 charm'd 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:—

69

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,
Through the waves bringing
That Syren, singing
To the hush'd tide.
“Stay,” said the shepherd-boy,
“Fairy-boat, stay,
“Linger, sweet minstrelsy,
“Linger, a day.”

70

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
Ev'n in the twining,
One moment shining,
And, the next, gone!
Soon as the imagined dream went by,
Uprose the nymph, with anxious eye
Turn'd to the clouds, as though some boon
She waited from that sun-bright dome,
And marvell'd that it came not soon
As her young thoughts would have it come.

71

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-wish'd tidings from her love,
Not half so precious in her eyes
Ev'n that high-omen'd bird would be,
Who dooms the brow o'er which he flies
To wear a crown of Royalty.
 

The Huma.

She had herself, last evening, sent
A winged messenger, whose flight
Through the clear, roseate element,
She watch'd 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!—
Ere yet another evening takes
Its farewell of the golden lakes,

72

She sees another envoy fly,
With the wish'd answer, through the sky.

SONG.

Welcome, sweet bird, through the sunny air winging,
Swift has 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 waken'd by news from my lover,
Will now all be turn'd into weeping for thee.

73

While thus this scene of song (their last
For the sweet summer season) pass'd,
A few presiding nymphs, whose care
Watch'd 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 through Heav'n, as tho' she bore
In safety through 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,

74

In groups, beneath that tranquil ray,
The Zeans at their feast were seen.
Gay was the picture—every maid
Whom late the lighted scene display'd,
Still in her fancy garb array'd;—
The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here
Beside the nymph of India's sky;
While there the Mainiote mountaineer
Whisper'd 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 pour'd,
And, while the flask went round, thus sung:—

SONG.

Up with the sparkling brimmer,
Up to the crystal rim;
Let not a moon-beam glimmer
'Twixt the flood and brim.

75

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 fix'd they gaze upon the sea,
Turns into paleness suddenly!

76

What see they there? a bright blue light
That, like a meteor, gliding o'er
The distant wave, grows on the sight,
As though 'twere wing'd to Zea's shore.
To some, 'mong those who came to gaze,
It seem'd 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 breath'd the bless'd Panaya's name,
Vow'd 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,
Nor 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 exclaim'd, and, hurrying by
The assembled throng, rush'd tow'rds the sea.

77

At burst so wild, alarm'd, amazed,
All stood, like statues, mute, and gazed
Into each other's eyes, to seek
What meant such mood, in maid so meek?
 

The name which the Greeks give to the Virgin Mary.

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 kiss'd that maiden's hand,
Lingering, to kiss it o'er and o'er,
By his sad brow too plainly told
The' ill-omen'd thought which cross'd 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,
Veil'd 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 favourite once, ere Beauty's eye
Had taught his soldier-heart to sigh:—

78

SONG.

March! nor heed those arms that hold thee,
Though 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-miss'd 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, ev'n now, thy glad returning,
And, while clasping, bids thee go.

79

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, e'er loth 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, ev'n 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 through 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 turn'd
From watching, when the signal burn'd.

80

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-wish'd band.
Oh the blest hour, when those who've been
Through peril's paths by land or sea,
Lock'd 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 again,
And ask, though answer'd 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,

81

While cups, with laurel foliage crown'd,
Are to the coming warriors pour'd—
Coming, as he, their herald, told,
With blades from victory scarce yet cold,
With hearts untouch'd by Moslem steel,
And wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.
“Ere morn,” said he,—and, while he spoke,
Turn'd 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 turn'd 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,

82

And call'd 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 sun-beam that kiss'd it look'd pale:
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” ev'ry Spirit exclaim'd,
“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
'Twas 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 lean'd 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 odour inhale:

83

“'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 swell'd on the gale;
“'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!” laughing myriads resound,
“Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”