And said, 'Oh Love! whate'er my lot, Rather than have one bliss forgot, So rich upon the ear had grown Он, Memory, how coldly Thou paintest joy gone by; But, Memory, too truly Thou paint'st the grief that's past; But those of Sorrow last. 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's Travels in Greece, 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 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, AH! 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 sweet tone, That all who heard him, wished his 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 re turn From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates, rang'd around 'extend from the chore, 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 its fair inmates now display'd, As round the Fount, in linked ring, They went, in cadence slow and light, And thus to that enchanted Spring Warbled their Farewell for the night. SONG. HERE, while the moonlight dim 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! Bright 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! 'But whither, she, starting, exclaims, have you led nie? Here's nonght but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?' With scorn in her glance, said the highborn Ladye. Tis the home,' he replied, of earth's loftiest creatures' Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground-'twas a skeleton's features, And many a day Through day and night, And that mocking bark, before! And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, And Death was the Lord of the high- And that ship in vain pursue it. THE INDIAN BOAT. "TWAS midnight dark, 3wift o'er the waters bore him, Shoot o'er the wave before him. 'A sail! a sail!' he cries; 'She comes from the Indian shore, And to-night shall be our prize, With her freight of golden ore: He saw the gold still clearer; The waves he pass'd, That boat seem'd never the nearer. Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated. His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doated: While the waves o'ertop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, But, soon as the day-beams had gush'd from on high, And the moon through heav'n did hie her, With wonder we saw this bright stranger He swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seem'd never the nigher. among us, All lovely and lone, as if stray'd from the sky. Nor long did her life for this sphere seem | But she pass'd like a day-dream, no skill intended, For pale was her cheek, with that spiritlike hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, And light from another already shines through. Then her eyes, when she sung-oh, but once to have seen them Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart. could restore her Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her, That song of past days on her lips to the last. Nor ev'n in the grave is her sad heart reposing Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard through the gloom. |