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

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!

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,

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,

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,

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.

'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

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—

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:

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.

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;

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,

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!”

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.

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.

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.”

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

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,

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—

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,

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,

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:—

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.

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!”

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:—

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.”

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.

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,

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.

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,

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.

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!

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.

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:—

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.

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.

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,

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,

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:

“'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!”