Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,

And mothers, your beloved are gone;Now may you quench those signal fires,

Whose light they long look'd back upon
From their dark deck-watching the flame
As fast it faded from their view,
With thoughts, that, but for manly shame,
Had made them droop and weep like you.
Home to your chambers! home, and pray
For the bright coming of that day,

When, bless'd by Heaven, the Cross shall sweep
The Crescent from the Egean deep,
And your brave warriors, hastening back,
Will bring such glories in their track
As shall, for many an age to come,
Shed light around their name and home!

There is a Fount on Zia's isle,
Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile
All the sweet flowers, of every kind,

On which the sun of Greece looks down,
Pleased as a lover on the crown
His mistress for her brow hath twined,
When he beholds each floweret there,
Himself had wish'd her most to wear.
Here bloom'd the laurel-rose, whose wreath
Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shrines,
And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe
Their odour into Zante's wines:-
The splendid woodbine, that, at eve,
To grace their floral diadems,
The lovely maids of Patmos weave-3

2

And that fair plant, whose tangled stems
Shine like a Nereid's hair,4 when spread,
Dishevell'd, o'er her azure bed ;-
All these bright children of the clime
(Each at its own most genial time,
The summer, or the year's sweet prime),
Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn

The valley, where that Fount is born:-
While round, to grace its cradle green,
Groups of Velani oaks are seen,
Towering on every verdant height-
Tall, shadowy, in the evening light,
Like Genii, set to watch the birth
Of some enchanted child of earth-
Fair oaks, that over Zia's vales,

Stand with their leafy pride unfurl'd; While Commerce, from her thousand sails, Scatters their acorns through the world !5 'T was here, as soon as prayer and sleep (Those truest friends to all who weep), Had lighten'd every heart, and made Ev'n sorrow wear a softer shade

'T was here, in this secluded spot,

Amid whose breathings, calm and sweet,

Nerium Oleander. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days. Journal of Dr Sibthorpe, Walpole's Turkey. 2 Id.

Lonicera Caprifolium,-used by the girls of Patmos for gar

lands.

4 Cuscuta Europea. From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids.-Walpole's Turkey.

Grief might be soothed, if not forgot,

The Zian nymphs resolved to meet Each evening now, by the same light That saw their farewell tears that night, And try, if sound of lute and song,

If wandering 'mid the moonlight flowers, In various talk, could charm along,

With lighter step, the lingering hours, Till tidings of that bark should come, Or victory waft their warriors home! When first they met-the wonted smile Of greeting having beam'd awhile,'T would touch ev'n Moslem heart to see The sadness that came suddenly

O'er their young brows, when they look'd round
Upon that bright, enchanted ground,

And thought, how many a time, with those
Who now were gone to the rude wars,
They there had met, at evening's close,
And danced till morn outshone the stars!
But seldom long doth hang the eclipse

Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts-
The breath from her own blushing lips,
That on the maiden's mirror rests,
Not swifter, lighter from the glass,
Than sadness from her brow doth pass!
Soon did they now, as round the well

They sat beneath the rising moon,
And some, with voice of awe, would tell
Of midnight fays, and nymphs who dwell
In holy fountains,-some would tune
Their idle lutes, that now had lain,
For days, without a single strain ;-
While some, from all the rest apart,
With laugh that told the lighten'd heart,
Sat, whispering in each other's ear
Secrets, that all in turn would hear;-
Soon did they find this thoughtless play
So swiftly steal their griefs away,
That many a nymph, though pleased the while,
Reproach'd her own forgetful smile,

And sigh'd to think she could be gay.

Among these maidens there was one

Who to LEUCADIA' late had been-
Had stood, beneath the evening sun,

On its white towering cliffs, and seen
The very spot where Sappho sung
Her swan-like music, ere she sprung
(Still holding, in that fearful leap,
By her loved lyre) into the deep,
And, dying, quench'd the fatal fire
At once, of both her heart and lyre!

Mutely they listen'd all-and well
Did the young travell'd maiden tell
Of the dread height to which that steep
Beetles above the eddying deep-2
Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round
The dizzy edge with mournful sound-

1 Now Santa Maura, the island from one of whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.

And of those scented lilies (some

Of whose white flowers, the Zian said,
Herself bad gather'd and brought home,
In memory of the minstrel maid),
Still blooming on that fearful place,-
As if call'd up by Love, to grace
The immortal spot, o'er which the last
Bright footsteps of his martyr pass'd!

While fresh to every listener's thought
These legends of LEUCADIA brought
All that of SAPPHO's hapless flame
Still hovers round the wrecks of fame,
The maiden, tuning her soft lute,
While all the rest stood round her, mute,
Thus sketch'd the languishment of soul
That o'er the tender LESBIAN stole,
And, in a voice, whose thrilling tone
Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own,
One of those fervid fragments gave,
Which still-like sparkles of Greek fire,
Undying, ev'n beneath the wave-

Burn on through Time, and ne'er expire!

SAPPHO AT HER LOOM.

As o'er her loom the LESBIAN maid
In love-sick languor hung her head,
Unknowing where her fingers stray'd,
She weeping turn'd away, and said;
«Oh! my sweet mother—'t is in vain—
I cannot weave as once I wove-
So wilder'd is my heart and brain

With thinking of that youth I love!» 2 Again the web she tried to trace,

But tears fell o'er each tangled thread, While, looking in her mother's face,

Who o'er her watchful lean'd, she said: «Oh, my sweet mother, 't is in vainI cannot weave, as once I woveSo wilder'd is my heart and brain

With thinking of that youth I love!»

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 listening throng She breathed her melancholy song:

WEEPING FOR THEE.

WEEPING for thee, my love, through the long day,
Lonely and wearily life wears away.

Weeping for thee, my love, through the long night-
No rest in darkness, no joy in light!

Nought left but memory-whose dreary tread

Sounds through this ruin'd heart, where all lies deadWakening the echoes of joy long fled!

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 heart
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.

THE ROMAIKA.

WHEN the Balaika'

Is heard o'er the sea,
I'll dance the Romaika
By moon-light with thee.
If waves then, advancing,
Should steal on our play,
Thy white feet, in dancing,
Shall chase them away. 2

This word is, I fear, defrauded of a syllable; Dr Clarke, if 1 recollect right, makes it Balalaika.»

I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika

When the Balaika

Is heard o'er the sea,

Thou 'It dance the Romaika,

My own love, with me.

Then at the closing

Of each merry lay,

We'll lie, reposing,

Beneath the night ray; Or if, declining,

The moon leave the skies, We'll talk by the shining

Of each other's eyes.

Oh then, how featly

The dance we 'll renew!

Wandering fleetly

Its light mazes through.1 Till stars, shining o'er us,

From heaven's high bowers, Would give their bright chorus For one dance of ours! When the Balaika

Is heard o'er the sea,

Thou 'It dance the Romaika,
My own love, with me.

How changingly for ever veers

The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears!
Even as in April, the light vane

Now points to sunshine, now to rain.
Instant this lively lay dispell'd

The shadow from each blooming brow, And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held

Full empire o'er each fancy now.

But say,
what shall the measure be?
«Shall we the old Romaika tread
(Some eager ask'd), as anciently

'T was by the maids of DELOS led,
When, slow at first, then circling fast,
As the gay spirits rose,―at last,
With hand in hand, like links, enlock'd,
Through the light air they seem'd to flit
In labyrinthine maze, that mock'd

Each dazzled eye that follow'd it!»
Some call'd aloud « the Fountain Dance!»

While one young, dark-eyed Amazon, Whose step was air-like, and whose glance Flash'd, like a sabre in the sun, Sportively said-« Shame on these soft And languid strains we hear so oft. Daughters of Freedom! have not we

Learn'd from our lovers and our sires The Dance of GREECE, while Greece was freeThat Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres,

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

In dancing the Romaika (says Mr Douglas), they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partner, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid evolutions; sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow ber in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the

measure."

But sword and shield clash on the ear
A music tyrants quake to hear?'
Heroines of Zia, arm with me,
And dance the dance of victory!»

Thus saying, she, with playful grace,
Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face
(From ANATOLIA came the maid)

Hung, shadowing each sunny charm,
And, with a fair young armourer's aid,
Fixing it on her rounded arm,

A mimic shield with pride display'd;
Then, springing tow'rds a grove that spread
Its canopy of foliage near,

Pluck'd off a lance-like twig, and said,

<< To arms, to arms!» while o'er her head
She waved the light branch, as a spear.
Promptly the laughing maidens all
Obey'd their chief's heroic call ;-
Round the shield-arm of each was tied

Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be ;
The grove their verdant armoury,
Falchion and lance 3 alike supplied;

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 4 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; While still, through every varying feat, Their voices,-heard in contrast sweet With some of deep, but soften'd sound, From lips of aged sires, who, round Stood smiling at their children's play,— Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:

Such were the sounds, to which the warrior boy

Danced in those happy days, when GREECE was free; When SPARTA's youth, even in the hour of joy,

Thus train'd their steps to war and victory!
«Raise the buckler-poise the lance-
Now here now there-retreat-advance!»>
Such was the Spartan warriors' dance.

«Grasp the falchion-gird the shield-
Attack-defend-do all but yield !»

Thus did thy sons, O GREECE! one glorious night,
Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea
That morning dawn'd, by whose immortal light
They grandly died for thee and liberty!5

For a description of the Pyrrhic Dance, see De Guys, etc. It appears from Apuleius (lib. 10) that this war-dance was, among the ancients, sometimes performed by females.

* See the costume of the Greek women of Natolia in Castellan s Maurs des Othomans.

3 The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance. Homer, Il. ii. 753.

It is said that Leonidas and bis companions employed themselves,

«Raise the buckler-poise the lanceNow here now there-retreat-advance!»> Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.

Scarce had they closed 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.

« Fond girls!» an aged Zian saidOne who, himself, had fought and bled, And now, with feelings, half delight, Half sadness, watch'd their mimic fight« Fond maids! who thus with war can jest, Like Love, in Mars's helmet drestWhen, in his childish innocence,

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

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

Hath track'd the fortunes of the braveHear me, in mournful ditty, tell

What glory waits the patriot's grave :—»

And, as that voice, in tones that more

Through feeling than through weakness err'd, Came, with a stronger sweetness, o'er

Th' attentive ear, this strain was heard :

THE TWO FOUNTAINS.

I SAW, from yonder silent cave,'

Two fountains running, side by side, The one was Mem'ry's limpid wave,

The other cold Oblivion's tide. «Oh, Love!» said I, in thoughtless dream, As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd,

« Here, in this dark and chilly stream,
Be all my pains forgot at last.»>

But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Mem'ry's fount I drank,

And brought the past all back again;
And said, « O Love! whate'er my lot,
Still let this soul to thee be true-
Rather 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, retired 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,
That, 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
Gathering new courage, as it found
An echo in each bosom round,-

That, e'er the nymph (with downcast eye
Still on the chords) her lute laid by,

«< Another song,» all lips exclaim'd,

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

OH! MEMORY.

OH! 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 paint'st the grief that 's past;

Joy's colours are fleeting,

But those of Sorrow last.

This morning we paid our visit to the cave of Trophonius, and

the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Her

Greece.

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 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 sca, Rose, like a city of chrysolite,

Call'd from the wave by witchery!

This ruin, now by barbarous hands

Debased into a motley shed,
Where the once splendid column stands
Inverted on its leafy head,

Was, 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 gay,SIMONIDES,3 whose fame, through years And ages past, still bright appearsLike Hesperus, a star of tears!

'T was 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 perfumed 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 free, And 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, As if some echo, that among Those minstrel halls had slumber'd long, Were murmuring into life again.

This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro della Valle tells us, among the Persians.

2 An ancient city of Zu, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) extend from the shore quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence louis received its

name..

3Z was the birth-place of this poet, whose verses are by CatulJus called tears."

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 the 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:

THEY ARE GONE.

An! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of song in these neglected bowers? They are gone they all are gone!

The youth, who told his pain in such sweet tone, That all, who heard him, wish'd his pain their ownHe is gone-he is gone!

And she, who, while he sung, sat listening by,

And thought to strains like these 't were sweet to dieShe is gone-she too is gone!

T is 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 silvery urn

Of light into the silent deep

And the young nymphs, on their return
From those romantic ruins, found
Their other play-mates, 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' worshipp'd well?
Or heard what legends songs recount
Of SYRA, and its sacred 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!

These Songs of the Well, as they were called among the aneients, 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 sang 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 rendezvous as it 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 continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religions veneration; and they preserve a tradition that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification. Clarke.