The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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A SONG OF DELOS. |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
317
A SONG OF DELOS.
“Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douee nature,
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;
L'air est si parfumé! la lumiere est si pure!
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!”
Lamartine.
Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;
L'air est si parfumé! la lumiere est si pure!
Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!”
Lamartine.
A song was heard of old—a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle,
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle—yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!—but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,
And of soft Grecian skies—oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Colour'd with loving light—she gazed her last,
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward—as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O'er dancing waves:—“Oh! linger yet,” she cried,
“Oh! linger, linger on the oar,
Oh! pause upon the deep!
That I may gaze yet once, once more,
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep;
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore,
—Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!
On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle,
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle—yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,
Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!—but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,
And of soft Grecian skies—oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Colour'd with loving light—she gazed her last,
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward—as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell
O'er dancing waves:—“Oh! linger yet,” she cried,
318
Oh! pause upon the deep!
That I may gaze yet once, once more,
Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep;
Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore,
—Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!
“I see the laurels fling back showers
Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes—a swell of song—
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng!
Of soft light still on many a shrine;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes—a swell of song—
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng!
“Oh! linger, linger on the oar
Beneath my native sky!
Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson—gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!—slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.
Beneath my native sky!
Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson—gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!—slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.
“A fatal gift hath been thy dower,
Lord of the Lyre! to me;
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart,
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.
Lord of the Lyre! to me;
With song and wreath from bower to bower,
Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free;
While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart,
Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.
“Now, wasted by the inborn fire,
I sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre,
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
—O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go,
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!
I sink to early rest;
The ray that lit the incense-pyre,
Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
319
While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!
“Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep
A tone of my farewell,
One tender accent, low and deep,
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell!
Might my last breath send music to thy shore!
—Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!”
A tone of my farewell,
One tender accent, low and deep,
Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell!
Might my last breath send music to thy shore!
—Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!”
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |