His favourite once, ere Beauty's eye
Had taught his soldier-heart tc 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 freeNay, 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'erThen 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

66

"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.

66 '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,

66 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 reëcho the
"Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!"

cry,

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!”