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 inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy? Nor longer can they doubt, the song

Comes from some island-bark, which now Courses the bright wave 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 't was sung,

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,

* Φίλταθ' 'Αρμοδι ̓ οὐ τι πον τεθνηκας.

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.

'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

To

pass

Had call'd up feelings far too sad
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 't was to see unwound

The ties by which her heart had clungWaken'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,