And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Raise us from what is low. Thus thought I, as by night I read The wounded from the battle-plain, Lo! in that house of misery Pass through the glimmering gloom, And flit from room to room. And slow, as in a dream of bliss, As if a door in heaven should be On England's annals, through the long That light its rays shall cast A Lady with a Lamp shall stand Heroic womanhood. Nor even shall be wanting here Saint Filomena bore. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Smyrna. SMYRNA. SMYRNA contested, with much plausibility, for the honor of being the birthplace of the blind minstrel. A cave in the vicinity is marked by tradition as Homer's retreat. THE sunset gun has died along the sea, It is the evening of Bairami's fête. The torches on each tapering minaret From Smyrna's dewy gardens floats the scent Now wends its tinkling way by Meles' stream, Where ramparts moulder in the moonlight beam. Seymour Green Wheeler Benjamin. SMYRNA. 66 HE "Ornament of Asia" and the Crown THE Of fair Ionia." Yea; but Asia stands No more an empress, and Ionia's hands Have lost their sceptre. Thou, majestic town, The freshness of thy beauty scatters yet Whose disk sublime illumed the ancient globe. Bayard Taylor TO A PERSIAN BOY IN THE BAZAAR AT SMYRNA. THE gorgeous blossoms of that magic tree When first, young Persian, I beheld thine eyes, Bayard Taylor. Teos (Sigagik). THE TOMB OF ANACREON. [OTHER of purple grapes, soul-soothing vine, MOTH Ꮇ Whose verdant boughs their graceful tendrils twine: Still round this urn, with youth unfading, bloom, For so the unmixed-goblet-loving sire, Simonides. Tr. H. H. Milman. 0 Tmolus, the Mountain. AN EPISTLE FROM MOUNT TMOLUS. TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. I. FRIEND, were you but crouched on Tmolus' side, In the warm myrtles, in the golden air Of the declining day, which half lays bare, Half drapes, the silent mountains and the wide Embosomed vale, that wanders to the sea; And the far sea, with doubtful specks of sail, And farthest isles, that slumber tranquilly Beneath the Ionian autumn's violet veil; Where the strong Fancy peals a broken chime Or blessing, which has clung to me from birth, |