The smiles thou hast waken'd by news from my lover,

Will now all be turn'd into weeping for thee.

While thus the scene of song (their last
For the sweet summer season) pass'd,
A few presiding nymphs, whose care
Watch'd over all, invisibly,

As do those guardian sprites of air,
Whose watch we feel, but cannot see,
Had from the circle-scarcely miss'd,

Ere they were sparkling there againGlided, like fairies, to assist

Their handmaids on the moonlight plain,

Where, hid by intercepting shade

From the stray glance of curious eyes, A feast of fruits and wines was laidSoon to shine out, a glad surprise!

And now the moon, her ark of light Steering through Heav'n, as though

she bore

In safety through that deep of night,
Spirits of earth, the good, the bright,
To some remote immortal shore,
Had half-way sped her glorious way,
When, round reclin'd on hillocks green,
In groups, beneath that tranquil ray,

The Zeans at their feast were seen.
Gay was the picture-ev'ry maid
Whom late the lighted scene display'd,
Still in her fancy garb array'd;-
The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here

Beside the nymph of India's sky;
While there the Mainiote mountaineer
Whisper'd in young Minerva's ear,

And urchin Love stood laughing by.

Let not a moon-beam glimmer
'Twixt the flood and brim.
When hath the world set eyes on
Aught to match this light,
Which, o'er our cup's horizon,
Dawns in bumpers bright?

Truth in a deep well lieth-
So the wise aver:
But Truth the fact denieth-
Water suits not her.
No, her abode's in brimmers,
Like this mighty cup-
Waiting till we, good swimmers,
Dive to bring her up.

Thus circled round the song of glee,
And all was tuneful mirth the while,
Save on the cheeks of some whose smile,
As fix'd they gaze upon the sea,
Turns into paleness suddenly!
What see they there? a bright blue light
That, like a meteor, gliding o'er
The distant wave, grows on the sight

As though 'twere wing'd to Zea's shore.
To some, 'mong those who came to gaze,
It seem'd the night-light, far away,
Of some lone fisher, by the blaze

Of pine torch, luring on his prey; While others, as, 'twixt awe and mirth, They breath'd the bless'd Panaya's '

name,

Vow'd that such light was not of earth,

But of that drear, ill-omen'd flame, Which mariners see on sail or mast, When Death is coming in the blast. While marv'lling thus they stood, a maid, Who sat apart, with downcast eye, Nor yet had, like the rest, survey'd That coming light which now was nigh, Soon as it met her sight, with cry

Of pain-like joy, "Tis he! 'tis he!'
Loud she exclaim'd, and hurrying by
The assembled throng, rush'd tow'rds
the sea.

At burst so wild, alarm'd, amaz'd,
All stood, like statues, mute, and gaz'd
Into each other's eyes, to seek

What meant such mood, in maid so meek?

In vain his mistress, sad as he,

But with a heart from self as free
As gen'rous woman's only is,
Veil'd her own fears to banish his :-
With frank rebuke, but still more vain,
Did a rough warrior, who stood by,
Call to his mind this martial strain,
His favourite once, ere Beauty's eye
Had taught his soldier-heart to 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 thenMarch!-nor rest thy sword, till Heaven Brings thee to those arms again.

Ev'n then, e'er loth their hands could part, A promise the youth gave, which bore

i

Fondly the maiden, every night,

Had stolen to seek that promis'd 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'er-
Then 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 vict'ry 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― [sail!' 'We'll greet, on vonder wave, their

Thinking, with lips that mov'd in pray'r,

Of Sappho and that fearful flood: While some, who ne'er till now had known

How much their hearts resembled hers,

Felt as they made her griefs their own, That they, too, were Love's worship

pers.

At length a murmur, all but mute,
So faint it was, came from the lute
Of a young melancholy maid,
Whose fingers, all uncertain play'd
From chord to chord, as if in chase

Of some lost melody, some strain
Of other times, whose faded trace
She sought among those chords
again.

Slowly the half-forgotten theme (Though born in feelings ne'er forgot) Came to her memory-as a beam

Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;And while her lute's sad symphony Fill'd up each sighing pause between ; And Love himself might weep to see

(As fays behold the wither'd green Where late they danced) what misery May follow where his steps have been

Thus simply to the list'ning throng
She breath'd her melancholy song.

Of many a stanza, this alone
Had scaped oblivion-like the one
Stray fragment of a wreck, that thrown,
With the lost vessel's name, ashore,
Tells who they were that live no more.

When thus the heart is in a vein
Of tender thought, the simplest strain
Can touch it with peculiar power-

As when the air is warm, the scent
Of the most wild and rustic flower
Can fill the whole rich element-
And, in such moods, the homeliest
tone

That's link'd with feelings, once our

own

With friends or joys gone by-will be Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!

But some there were, among the group Of damsels there, too light of hears To let their fancies longer droop,

Ev'n under music's melting art: And one upspringing, with a bound, From a low bank of flowers, look'd round

With eyes that, though they laugh'd with light,

Had still a lingering tear within; And while her hand in dazzling flight, Flew o'er a fairy mandolin,

Thus sung the song her lover late
Had sung to her the eve before

That joyous night, when, as of yore, All Zia met, to celebrate

The Feast of May, on the sea-shore.

SONG.

WHEN the Balaika1

Is heard o'er the sea, I'll dance the Romaika By moonlight with thee. If waves, then, advancing, Should steal on our play, Thy white feet, in dancing,

Shall chase them away.

ing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of those groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave.'-Douglas on the Modera Greeks.

And as their glossy locks, let free, Fell down their shoulders carelessly, You might have dream'd you saw a throng

Of youthful Thyads, by the beam Of a May Moon, bounding along

Peneus' silver-eddied' stream!

And now they stepp'd with measured tread,

Martially, o'er the shining field: Now, to the mimic combat led A heroine at each squadron's head Struck lance to lance and sword to shield:

That morning dawn'd by whose immortal light

They grandly died for thee and liberty !2

'Raise the buckler-poise the lance'Now here now there-retreat-ad vance !'

Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

Scarce had they clos'd this martial lay When, flinging their light spears away, The combatants, in broken ranks,

All breathless from the war-field fly; And down, upon the velvet banks

And flowery slopes, exhausted lie, Like rosy huntresses of Thrace, Resting at sunset from the chase.

SONG.

One who himself, had fought and bled, And now, with feelings, half delight, Half sadness, watch'd their mimic fight

vance !'

can jest

Like Love, in Mars's helmet drest,
When, in his childish innocence,

Pleas'd with the shade that helmet
He thinks not of the blood, that thence
flings,
Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.
Ay-true it is, young patriot maids,

Did luck but shine on righteous blades, Did Honour's arm still win the fray, But, no, alas!-hear one, who well War were a game for gods to play!

Hath track'd the fortunes of the
brave-

Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell
What glory waits the patriot's

grave.

SONG.

As by the shore, at break of day,
A vanquish'd Chief expiring lay,
Upon the sande, with broken sword,
He trac'd his farewell to the Free;