A bashful maiden stood, to hide And said, 'Oh Love! whate'er my lot, Still let this soul to thee be trueRather than have one bliss forgot, Be all my pains remember'd too!' The group that stood around, to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had, by degrees, as swell'd the lay More strongly forth, retir'd away, Like a fair shell, whose valves divide, To show the fairer pearl inside: For such she was-a creature, bright And delicate as those day-flowers, Which, while they last, make up, in light And sweetness, what they want in hours. So rich upon the ear had grown Her voice's melody-its tone Gath'ring new courage, as it found An echo in each bosom roundThat, ere the nymph (with downcast eye Still on the chords) her lute laid by, 'Another Song,' all lips exclaim'd, Her blushes, while the lute she tried-And each some matchless fav'rite nam'd; Like roses, gath'ring round to veil The clustered leaves, herself unseen. Came, with a stronger sweetness, o'er Th' attentive ear, this strain was heard. SONG. I SAW, from yonder silent cave,1 The other cold Oblivion's tide. And brought the past all back again: While blushing, as her fingers ran SONG. Он, Memory, how coldly Thou paintest joy gone by ; But, Memory, too truly Thou paint'st the grief that's past; Joy's colours are fleeting, But those of Sorrow last. And while thou bring'st before us Dark pictures of past ill, Life's evening, closing o'er us. But makes them darker still. So went the moonlight hours along, 1This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks.'-Williams' Travels in Greece, And witching sounds-not such as they, | As if some echo, that among 1 But soft and holy-did each maid Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile, And win back sorrow to a smile. Not far from this secluded place, On the sea-shore a ruin stood ;A relic of th' extinguish'd race, Who once look'd o'er that foamy flood, When fair Ioulis,2 by the light Of golden sunset, on the sight Of mariners who sail'd that sea, Rose, like a city of chrysolite, Call'd from the wave by witchery. This ruin-now by barb'rous hands Debas'd into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy headWas, as they tell, in times of old, The dwelling of that bard, whose lay Could melt to tears the stern and cold, And sadden, 'mid their mirth, the gaySimonides, whose fame, through years And ages past, still bright appearsLike Hesperus, a star of tears! 3 'Twas hither now-to catch a view Of the white waters, as they play'd Silently in the light-a few Of the more restless damsels stray'd; And some would linger 'mid the scent Of hanging foliage, that perfum'd The ruin'd walls; while others went, Culling whatever floweret bloom'd In the lone leafy space between, Where gilded chambers once had been ; Or, turning sadly to the sea, Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest To some brave champion of the FreeAnd thought, alas, how cold might be, At that still hour, his place of rest! Meanwhile there came a sound of song From the dark ruins- a faint strain, This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro della Valle tells us, among the Persians. 2 An ancient city of Zia, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) Those minstrel halls had slumber'd long Were murm'ring into life again. But, no-the nymphs knew well the tone A maiden of their train, who lov'd, Like the night-bird, to sing alone, Had deep into those ruins roved, Her lover sung SONG. one moonlight АH! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bow'rs! They are gone-they all are gone! The youth, who told his pain in such That all who heard him, wished his sweet tone, pain their own He is gone-he is gone! And she, who, while he sung, sat listening by And thought, to strains like these 'twere sweet to die She is gone-she too is gone! 'Tis thus, in future hours, some bard will say Of her, who hears, and him, who sings this lay They are gone they both are gone! The moon was now, from Heaven's steep, Bending to dip her silvery urn Of light into the silent deep And the young nymphs, on their return From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates, rang'd around 'extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name.' 3 Zia was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called' tears.' The sacred Spring, prepar'd to tune Their parting hymn,1 ere sunk the moon To that fair Fountain, by whose stream Their hearts had form'd so many a dream. Who has not read the tales, that tell Link'd in harmonious dance and song, To Delos isle, stood looking on, Enchanted with a scene so gay, Nor sought their boats, till morning shone? Such was the scene this lovely glade And thus to that enchanted Spring Warbled their Farewell for the night. SONG. HERE, while the moonlight dim Maidens of Zia! These 'Songs of the Well,' as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. De Guys tells us that he has seen the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them.' 2 The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state, the same rendezvous as it Nothing but Music's strain, Bright Fount, so clear and cold, Fam'd though its streamlet be, Thou, while our hymn we sing, Sweet Fount of Zia ! Now, by those stars that glance Such as, in former days, But when to merry feet No, nought but Music's strain, Oh, Maids of Zia! was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continu ally from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they preserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification.'-Clarke. 3Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi Exercet Diana choros.'- Virgil. POEMS FROM THE EPICUREAN. 1827. THE VALLEY OF THE NILE. FAR as the sight can reach, beneath as clear Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives Here, where the waters wind into a bay Of lotus flowers that close above their heads, |