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, And each some matchless fav'rite named; While blushing, as her fingers ran O'er the sweet chords, she thus began:

SONG.

Oн, Memory, how coldly

Thou paintest joy gone by: Like rainbows, thy pictures But mournfully shine and die Or, if some tints thou keepest,

That former days recall, As o'er each line thou weepest, Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly

Thou paintest grief that's past; Joy's colors 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,
In this sweet glade; and so, with song
And witching sounds-not such as they,
The cymbalists of Ossa, play'd,
To chase the moon's eclipse away,'

But sor 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," 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
Debased into a motley shed,
Where the once splendid column stands
Inverted on its leafy head-
Form'd, 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 appears— Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now-to catch a view

Of the white waters, as they play'd Silently the light-a few

Of the more restless damsels stray;
And some would linger 'mid the scert

Of hanging foliage, that perfumed
The ruin'd walls; while others went,
Culling whatever flow'ret 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 Free-
Thinking, 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,
As if some echo, that among
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 loved,
Like the night-bird, to sing alone,

Had deep into those ruins roved,
And there, all other thoughts forgot,
Was warbling o'er, in lone delight,
A lay that, on that very spot,

Her lover sung one moonlight night

SONG.

AH! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bow'rs? They are gone all gone!

as Pietro della Valle tells us, among the Persians.

An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of

marble. Its remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore,

whence Ioulis received its name."

8 Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears."

The youth, who told his pain in such sweet tone, That all, who heard him, wish'd his pain their own

He is gone-he is gone!

And she, who, while he sung, sat list'ning 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 layThey are gone-they both are gone!

The moon was now, from Heaven's steep,
Bending to dip her silv'ry urn
Into the bright and silent deep-

And the young nymphs, on their return
From those romantic ruins, found
Their other playmates, ranged around
The sacred Spring, prepared to tune
Their parting hymn,' 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
Of old Eleusis' sacred Well,
Or heard what legend-songs recount
Of Syra, and its holy Fount,"
Gushing, at once, from the hard rock
Into the laps of living flowers-
Where village maidens loved to flock,

On summer-nights, and, like the hours,
Link'd in harmonious dance and song,
Charm'd the unconscious night along;
While holy pilgrims, on their way

To Delos' isle, stood looking on, Enchanted with a scene so gay,

Nor sought their boats, till morning shone?

1 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."

"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 ren

When gentle eyes that scarce, for tears, Could trace the warrior's parting track, Shall, like a misty morn that clears, When the long-absent sun appears,

Shine out, all bliss, to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!—
More fond of change than a young moon,
No joy so new was e'er possess'd

But Youth would leave for newer soon. These Zean nymphs, though bright the spot, Where first they held their evening play, As ever fell to fairy's lot

To wanton o'er by midnight's ray,
Had now exchanged that shelter'd scene
For a wide glade beside the sea-
A lawn, whose soft expanse of green
Turn'd to the west sun smilingly,
As though, in conscious beauty bright,
It joy'd to give him light for light.

And ne'er did evening more serene
Look down from heav'n on lovelier scene.
Calm lay the flood around, while fleet,
O'er the blue shining element,
Light barks, as if with fairy feet

That stirr'd not the hush'd waters, went;
Some that, ere rosy eve fell o'er

The blushing wave, with mainsail free,
Had put forth from the Attic shore,
Or the near Isle of Ebony ;-
Some, Hydriot barks, that deep in caves
Beneath Colonna's pillar'd cliffs,
Had all day lurk'd, and o'er the waves

Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs.
Wo to the craft, however fleet,
These sea-hawks in their course shall meet,
Laden with juice of Lesbian vines,
Or rich from Naxos' emery mines;
For not more sure, when owlets flee
O'er the dark crags of Pendelee,
Doth the night-falcon mark his prey,
Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade
Where these young island nymphs are met!
Full-orb'd, yet pure, as if no shade

Had touch'd its virgin lustre yet;
And freshly bright, as if just made
By Love's own hands, of new-born light
Stol'n from his mother's star to-night.

On a bold rock, that o'er the flood Jutted from that soft glade, there stood A Chapel, fronting tow'rds the sea,— Built in some by-gone century,—

Where, nightly, as the seaman's mark,
When waves rose high or clouds were dark,
A lamp, bequeath'd by some kind Saint,
Shed o'er the wave its glimmer faint,
Waking in way-worn men a sigh
And pray'r to heav'n, as they went by.
"Twas there, around that rock-built shrine,
A group of maidens and their sires
Had stood to watch the day's decline,
And, as the light fell o'er their lyres,
Sung to the Queen-Star of the Sea
That soft and holy melody.

But lighter thoughts and lighter song
Now woo the coming hours along:
For, mark, where smooth the herbage lies,
Yon gay pavilion, curtain'd deep

With silken folds, through which, bright eyes,

From time to time, are seen to peep; While twinkling lights that, to and fro, Beneath those veils, like meteors, go,

Tell of some spells at work, and keep Young fancies chain'd in mute suspense, Watching what next may shine from thence. Nor long the pause, ere hands unseen

That mystic curtain backward drew, And all, that late but shone between,

In half-caught gleams, now burst to view. A picture 'twas of the early days Of glorious Greece, ere yet those rays Of rich, immortal Mind were hers That made mankind her worshippers; While, yet unsung, her landscapes shone With glory lent by Heaven alone; Nor temples crown'd her nameless hills, Nor Muse immortalized her rills; Nor aught but the mute poesy Of sun, and stars, and shining sea Illumed that land of bards to be. While, prescient of the gifted race

That yet would realm so blest adorn, Nature took pains to deck the place

Where glorious Art was to be born.

Such was the scene that mimic stage
Of Athens and her hills portray'd;
Athens, in her first, youthful age,

Ere yet the simple violet braid,'
Which then adorn'd her, had shone down
The glory of earth's loftiest crown.
While yet undream'd, her seeds of Art
Lay sleeping in the marble mine-
Sleeping till Genius bade them start
To all but life, in shapes divine;

1 "Violet-crowned Athens."-Pindar

Till deified the quarry shone
And all Olympus stood in stone!

There, in the foreground of that scene,
On a soft bank of living green,
Sat a young nymph, with her lap full

Of newly gather'd flowers, o'er which She graceful lean'd, intent to cull

All that was there of hue most rich, To form a wreath, such as the eye Of her young lover, who stood by, With palette mingled fresh, might choose To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was orm'd; the maiden raised
Her speaking eyes to his, while he-
Oh not upon the flowers now gazed,

But on that bright look' witchery.
While, quick as if but then the thought,
Like light, had reach'd his soul, he caught
His pencil up, and, warm and true
As life itself, that love-look drew:
And, as his raptured task went on,
And forth each kindling feature shone,
Sweet voices, through the moonlight air,

From lips as moonlight fresh and pure, Thus hail'd the bright dream passing there, And sung the Birth of Portraiture."

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bow'rs, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreath'd the flow'rs. The youth was skill'd in Painting's art,

But ne'er had studied woman's brow,
Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charms, till now

CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketch'd the rays that light the brook ; But what were these, or what were those, To woman's blush, to woman's look? "Oh, if such magic pow'r there be, "This, this," he cried, " is all my prayer, "To paint that living light I see,

"And fix the soul that sparkles there."

The whole of this scene was suggested by Pliny's account of the artist Pausias and his mistress Glycera, lib. xxxv. c. 4.

His prayer, as soon as breathed, was heard; His palette, touch'd by Love, grew warm, And Painting saw her hues transferr'd

From lifeless flow'rs to woman's form. Still as from tint to tint he stole,

The fair design shone out the more, And there was now a life, a soul, Where only colors glow'd before.

Then first carnations learn'd to speak,

And lilies into life were brought; While, mantling on the maiden's cheek, Young roses kindled into thought. Then hyacinths their darkest dyes

Upon the locks of Beauty threw ; And violets, transform'd to eyes,

Inshrined a soul within their blue.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.
Song was cold and Painting dim
Till song and Painting learn'd from him.

Soon as the scene had closed, a cheer

Of gentle voices, old and young,
Rose from the groups that stood to hear

This tale of yore so aptly sung;
And while some nymphs, in haste to tell
The workers of that fairy spell

How crown'd with praise their task had been,
Stole in behind the curtain'd scene,
The rest, in happy converse stray'd—
Talking that ancient love-tale o'er-
Some, to the groves that skirt the glade,

Some, to the chapel by the shore,
To look what lights were on the sea,
And think of th' absent silently.

But soon that summons, known so well
Through bow'r and hall, in Eastern lands,
Whose sound, more sure than gong or bell,
Lovers and slaves alike commands,-
The clapping of young female hands,

1 The traveller Shaw mentions a beautiful rill in Barbary, which is received into a large basin called Shrub wee krub, "Drink and away,"-there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins in such places.

? The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel: when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk."-Richardson.

"Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;—
While nearer lay, fast slumb'ring too,
In a rude tent, with brow serene,

A youth whose cheeks of way-worn hue
And pilgrim-bonnet, told the tale
That he had been to Mecca's Vale:
Haply in pleasant dreams, ev'n now

Thinking the long-wish'd hour is come When, o'er the well-known porch at home, His hand shall hang the aloe boughTrophy of his accomplish'd vow.3 But brief his dream-for now the call

Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van, "Bind on your burdens," wakes up all The widely slumb'ring caravan ; And thus meanwhile, to greet the ear Of the young pilgrim as he wakes, The song of one who, ling'ring near, Had watch'd his slumber, cheerly breaks.

SONG.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound
Wakes the slumb'ring camp around;
Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,
Armed sleeper, up, and on!
Long and weary is our way

O'er the burning sands to-day;

this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street-door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey."-Hasselquist.

4 This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:-" For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, ‘Bind on your burdens ?'"