The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

“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!”

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!—

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;

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:

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;

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.

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

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.

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—

“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:

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—

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

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.

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!

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.”

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,

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;

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;

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.

“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,

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:”—

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

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,

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:

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.

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

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—

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,

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!

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,

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,

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!

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,

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.