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 worm'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."

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.

2 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.

3 "Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs

Calls back the groups from rock and field
To see some new-form'd scene reveal'd ;-
And fleet and eager, down the slopes
Of the green glade, like antelopes,
When, in their thirst, they hear the sound
Of distant rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene-a waste

Of Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray, An ancient well, whereon were traced

The warning words, for such as stray Unarmed there, " Drink and away!" While, near it, from the night-ray screen'd, And like his bells, in hush'd repose, A camel slept-young as if wean'd When last the star, Canopus, rose.'

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?'"

But to pilgrim's homeward feet Ev'n the desert's path is sweet.

When we lie at dead of night,
Looking up to heaven's light,
Hearing but the watchman's tone
Faintly chanting, "God is one,"
Oh what thoughts then o'er us come
Of our distant village home,
Where the chant, when ev'ning sets,
Sounds from all the minarets.

Cheer thee!-soon shall signal lights,
Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights,
Kindling quick from man to man,
Hail our coming caravan:2

Think what bliss that hour will be!
Looks of home again to see,
And our names again to hear
Murmur'd out by voices dear.

So pass'd the desert dream away,
Fleeting as his who heard this lay.
Nor long the pause between, nor moved

The spell-bound audience from that spot; While still, as usual, Fancy roved

On to the joy that yet was not ;-
Fancy, who hath no present home,
But builds her bower in scenes to come,
Walking forever in a light

That flows from regions out of sight.

But see, by gradual dawn descried,

A mountain realm-rugged as e'er Upraised to heav'n its summits bare, Or told to earth, with frown of pride,

That Freedom's falcon nest was there, Too high for hand of lord or king T> hood her brow, or chain her wing.

"Tis Maina's land-her ancient hills,
The abode of nymphs-her countless rills
And torrents, in their downward dash,
Shining, like silver, through the shade
Of the sea-pine and flow'ring ash-
All with a truth so fresh portray'd
As wants but touch of life to be
A world of warm reality.

1 The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one," &c., &c.

2 "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."

3

And now, light bounding forth, a band
Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance-
Nymphs with their lovers, hand in hand,
Link'd in the Ariadne dance ;*
And while, apart from that gay throng,
A minstrel youth, in varied song,
Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills
Of these wild children of the hills,
The rest by turns, or fierce or gay,
As war or sport inspires the lay,
Follow each change that wakes the strings,
And act what thus the lyrist sings:-

SONG.

No life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,

Where, throned above this world, he hears
Its strife at distance die.

Or, should the sound of hostile drum

Proclaim below, "We come-we come,"

Each crag that tow'rs in air

Gives answer, "Come who dare!"
While, like bees, from dell and dingle,
Swift the swarming warriors mingle,
And their cry "Hurra!" will be,
"Hurra, to victory!"

Then, when battle's hour is over,

See the happy mountain lover,

With the nymph, who'll soon be bride,
Seated blushing by his side,-
Every shadow of his lot

In her sunny smile forgot.

Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,

Where, throned above this world, he hears
Its strife at distance die.

Nor only thus through summer suns
His blithe existence cheerly runs-

Ev'n winter, bleak and dim,
Brings joyous hours to him;
When, his rifle behind him flinging,
He watches the roe-buck springing,
And away, o'er the hills away
Re-echoes his glad "hurra."

Then how blest, when night is closing,

By the kindled hearth reposing,

4 See, for an account of this dance, De Guy's Travels

To his rebeck's drowsy song,
He beguiles the hour along;
Or, provoked by merry glances,
To a brisker movement dances,
Till, weary at last, in slumber's chain,
He dreams o'er chase and dance again,
Dreams, dreams them o'er again

As slow that minstrel, at the close, Sunk, while he sung, to feign'd repose, Aptly did they, whose mimic art

Follow'd the changes of his lay, Portray the lull, the nod, the start,

Through which, as faintly died away His lute and voice, the minstrel pass'd, Till voice and lute lay hush'd at last.

But now far other song came o'er

Their startled ears-song that, at first, As solemnly the night-wind bore

Across the wave its mournful burst, Seem'd to the fancy, like a dirge

Of some lone Spirit of the Sea, Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge

The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden, amid their pastime, pause

The wond'ring nymphs; and, as the sound Of that strange music nearer draws,

With mute inquiring eye look round, Asking each other what can be The source of this sad minstrelsy? Nor longer can they doubt, the song Comes from some island-bark, which w Courses the bright waves swift along, And soon, perhaps, beneath the brow Of the Saint's Rock will shoot its prow

Instantly all, with hearts that sigh'd

"Twixt fear's and fancy's influence, Flew to the rock, and saw from thence A red-sail'd pinnace tow'rds them glide, Whose shadow, as it swept the spray, Scatter'd the moonlight's smiles away. Soon as the mariners saw that throng

From the cliff gazing, young and old, Sudden they slack'd their sail and song,

And, while their pinnace idly roll'd
On the light surge, these tidings told :-

"Twas from an isle of mournful name, From Missolonghi, last they cameSad Missolonghi, sorrowing yet

O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame

That e'er in life's young glory set !— And now were on their mournful way,

Wafting the news through Helle's isles ;News that would cloud ev'n Freedom's ray, And sadden Vict'ry 'mid her smiles. Their tale thus told, and heard, with pain, Out spread the galliot's wings again; And, as she sped her swift career, Again that Hymn rose on the ear"Thou art not dead-thou art not dead,!" As oft 'twas sung, in ages flown, Of him, the Athenian, who, to shed A tyrant's blood, pour'd out his own.

SONG.

"THOU art not dead-thou ani: ot dead!” No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy soul, to realms above us fled, Though, like a star, it dwells o'er head,

Still lights this world below.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Through isles of light, where heroes tread,
And flow'rs ethereal blow,

Thy god-like Spirit now is led,
Thy lip, with life ambrosial fed,
Forgets all taste of wo.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!

No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle, round that falchion spread
Which struck the immortal blow,
Throughout all time, with leaves unshed-
The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread-
Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,
Though quench'd the vital glow,
Their mem'ry lights a flame, instead,
Which, ev'n from out the narrow bed

Of death its beams shall throw.
Thou art not dead-thou art not dead!
No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said, From age to age shall go,

1 Φιλταθ' ‘Αρμοδι' ουπω τεθνηκας.

Long as the oak and ivy wed,
As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,

Or Helle's waters flow.

Thou art not dead-thou art not dead! No, dearest Harmodius, no.

As if to guide to realms that lie
In that bright sea beyond:

Who knows but, in some brighter deep
Than ev'n that tranquil, moonlit main,
Some land may lie, where those who weep
Shall wake to smile again!

'Mong those who linger'd list'ning there,-
List'ning, with ear and eye, as long
As breath of night could tow'rds them bear
A murmur of that mournful song,-
A few there were, in whom the lay

Had call'd up feelings far too sad
To pass with the brief strain away,

Or turn at once to theme more glad; And who, in mood untuned to meet

The light laugh of the happier train, Wander'd to seek some moonlight seat Where they might rest, in converse sweet, Till vanish'd smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night
To sadness lent more soothing light.
On one side, in the dark blue sky,
Lonely and radiant, was the eye
Of Jove himself, while, on the other,

'Mong tiny stars that round her gleam'd, The young moon, like the Roman mother Among her living "jewels," beam'd.

Touch'd by the lovely scenes around,

A pensive maid-one who, though young, Had known what 'twas to see unwound

The ties by which her heart had clung— Waken'd her soft tamboura's sound,

And to its faint accords thus sung:

With cheeks that had regain'd their power And play of smiles,—and each bright eye, Like violets after morning's shower,

The brighter for the tears gone by, Back to the scene such smiles should grace These wand'ring nymphs their path retrace, And reach the spot, with rapture new, Just as the veils asunder flew, And a fresh vision burst to view.

There, by her own bright Attic flood,
The blue-eyed Queen of Wisdom stood ;—
Not as she haunts the sage's dreams,
With brow unveil'd, divine, severe;
But soften'd, as on bards she beams,
When fresh from Poesy's high sphere,
A music, not her own, she brings,
And, through the veil which Fancy flings
O'er her stern features, gently sings.

But who is he-that urchin nigh,

With quiver on the rose-trees hung, Who seems just dropp'd from yonder sky, And stands to watch that maid, with eye

So full of thought, for one so young?— That child-but, silence! lend thine ear, And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear: