Nights, such as Eden's calm recall
In its first lonely hour, when all

So silent is, below, on high,

That if a star falls down the sky, You almost think you hear it fallHither, to this recess, a few,

To shun the dancers' wild'ring noise, And give an hour, ere night-time flew, To Music's more ethereal joys, Came with their voices-ready all As Echo, waiting for a callIn hymn or ballad, dirge or glee, To weave their mingling minstrelsy.

And, first, a dark-ey'd nymph, array'd—
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisa-with that braid
Of hair across the brow, and one
Small gem that in the centre shone-
With face, too, in its form resembling

Da Vinci's Beauties - the dark eyes, Now lucid, as through crystal trembling,

Now soft, as if suffus'd with sighs— Her lute, that hung beside her, took, And, bending o'er it with shy look, More beautiful, in shadow thus, Than when with life most luminous, Pass'd her light finger o'er the chords, And sung to them these mournful words :

Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,
Or, nightly, on her glist'ning sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody-
Now link'd their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,
Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear

But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paus'd, entranc'd, to hear,
And, for that day, deferr'd her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

ON one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o'er th' Ægean fling,
Beneath my casement, low and soft,

I heard a Lesbian lover sing; And, list'ning both with ear and thought, These sounds upon the night-breeze caught"Oh, happy as the gods is he, "Who gazes at this hour on thee!"

The song was one by Sappho sung,
In the first love-dreams of her lyre,
When words of passion from her tongue
Fell like a shower of living fire.
And still, at close of ev'ry strain,
I heard these burning words again-
Oh, happy as the gods is he,
"Who listens at this hour to thee!"

SONG.

BRING hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying-
Here will I lay me, and list to thy song;
Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banish'd so long,
Chase them away-they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on, thou mournful lute-day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanish'd, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

Once more to Mona Lisa turn'd
Each asking eye-
-nor turn'd in vain;
Though the quick, transient blush that burn'd
Bright o'er her cheek, and died again,
Show'd with what inly shame and fear
Was utter'd what all lov'd to hear.
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay

Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that, like a ray

Of southern sunshine, seem'd to float-
So rich with climate was each note-
Call'd up in every heart a dream
Of Italy, with this soft theme:-

The group, that late, in garb of Greeks, Sung their light chorus o'er the tide

1 The celebrated portrait by Leonardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting.-Vasari, vol. vii.

SONG.

On, where art thou dreaming, On land, or on sea?

In my lattice is gleaming
The watch-light for thee;
And this fond heart is glowing
To welcome thee home,
And the night is fast going,
But thou art not come :
No, thou com'st not!

'Tis the time when night-flowers Should wake from their rest; 'Tis the hour of all hours,

When the lute singeth best. But the flowers are half sleeping Till thy glance they see! And the hush'd lute is keeping Its music for thee.

Yet, thou com'st not!

Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prank'd in gay vest, to which the flame
Of every lamp he pass'd, or blue,
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue;
As though a live cameleon's skin
He had despoil'd to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clatt'ring shells,

And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.
Close after him, a page-in dress
And shape, his minature express-
An ample basket, fill'd with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reach'd this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master's feet,

---

Gay caps we here of foolscap make,
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,

And leave to wits the cap and feather.
Tėtotums we've for patriots got,

Who court the mob with antics humble; Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,

A glorious spin, and then-a tumble. Who'll buy, &c. &c.

Here, wealthy misers to inter,
We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper ;
While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver,
That, fast as they can wish, will caper.
For aldermen we've dials true,

That tell no hour but that of dinner;
For courtly parsons sermons new,
That suit alike both saint and sinner.
Who'll buy, &c. &c.

No time we've now to name our terms,
But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,
This oldest of all mortal firms,

Folly and Co., will try to please you.
Or, should you wish a darker hue

of goods than we can recommend you, Why then (as we with lawyers do)

To Knavery's shop next door we'll send, you. Who'll buy, &c. &c.

While thus the blissful moments roll'd,
Moments of rare and fleeting light,
That show themselves, like grains of gold
In the mine's refuse, few and bright;
Behold where, opening far away,

The long Conservatory's range,
Stripp'd of the flowers it wore all day,
But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,
A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-lov'd Supper!-blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanc'd the march of appetite;
Deploy'd his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who play'd the dickens
With Rome and all her sacred chickens,
Put Supper and her fowls so white,
Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.

Now wak'd once more by wine- whose tide

Is the true Hippocrene, where glide

The Muse's swans with happiest wing, Dipping their bills, before they singThe minstrels of the table greet

The list'ning ear with descant sweet:

'Tis not for thee the fault to blame, For from those eyes the madness came. Forgive but thou the crime of loving,

In this heart more pride 'twill raise To be thus wrong, with thee approving, Than right, with all a world to praise!

But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buz of whisp'ring round,
From lip to lip-as if the Power

Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret (as we fling
Nuts among children) to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be
Thus scrambled for so wantonly?
And, mark ye, still as each reveals
The mystic news, her hearer steals
A look tow'rds yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Masque,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair

As Love himself for bride could ask,
Sits blushing deep, as if aware
Of the wing'd secret circling there.
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman's restless brain pursues,

What mean these mystic whisperings?

Thus runs the tale:-yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty's light array'd,
While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,
(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)
Is the bright heroine of our song, —
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We've miss'd among this mortal train,
We thought her wing'd to heaven again.

But no-earth still demands her smile;
Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.
And if, for maid of heavenly birth,

A young Duke's proffer'd heart and hand
Be things worth waiting for on earth,
Both are, this hour, at her command.
To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,

For love concerns expressly meant, The fond proposal first was made,

And love and silence blush'd consent. Parents and friends (all here, as Jews, Enchanters, housemaids, Turks, Hindoos,) Have heard, approv'd, and blest the tie; And now, hadst thou a poet's eye, Thou might'st behold, in th' air, above That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,

Holding, as if to drop it down
Gently upon her curls, a crown
Of Ducal shape-but, oh, such gems!
Pilfer'd from Peri diadems,

And set in gold like that which shines
To deck the Fairy of the Mines:

In short, a crown all glorious-such as Love orders when he makes a Duchess.

But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun
Up the bright orient hath begun
To canter his immortal team;

And, though not yet arriv'd in sight, His leader's nostrils send a steam

Of radiance forth, so rosy bright As makes their onward path all light. What's to be done? if Sol will be So deuced early, so must we;

And when the day thus shines outright,
Ev'n dearest friends must bid good night.
So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking,
Now almost a by-gone tale;
Beauties, late in lamp-light basking,

Now, by daylight, dim and pale;
Harpers, yawning o'er your harps,
Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;
Mothers who, while bor'd you keep
Time by nodding, nod to sleep;
Heads of air, that stood last night
Crépé, crispy, and upright,
But have now, alas, one sees, a
Leaning like the tower of Pisa;
Fare ye well-thus sinks away

All that's mighty, all that's bright;
Tyre and Sidon had their day,

And ev'n a Ball-has but its night!

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting, as readers, those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.

The Island of Zea, where the scene is laid, was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles.” — Vol. vi. p. 174.

T. M.

EVENINGS IN GREECE.

FIRST EVENING.

"THE sky is bright-the breeze is fair,

"And the mainsail flowing, full and free

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 seenThough every eye still turns to mark The moonlight spot where it had been.

Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,

And mothers, your belov'd 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 Egean deep,
And your brave warriors, hast'ning 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,
Pleas'd as a lover on the crown
His mistress for her brow hath twin'd,
When he beholds each flow'ret there,
Himself had wish'd her most to wear;
Here bloom'd the laurel-rose 1, whose wreath
Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shrines,
And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe
Their odour into Zante's wines: -2
The splendid woodbine, that, at eve,
To grace their floral diadems,

The lovely maids of Patmos weave: -3
And that fair plant, whose tangled stems
Shine like a Nereïd's hair 4, 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:

1" 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. 2 Id.

4 Cuscuta europaa. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids." Walpole's Turkey.

5 "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts