HERE, while the moonlight dim Falls on that mossy brim,
Sing we our Fountain Hymn,
Maidens of Zea!
Nothing but Music's strain,
When Lovers part in pain,
Soothes, till they meet again,
Oh, Maids of Zea!
Bright Fount, so clear and cold, Round which the nymphs of old Stood, with their locks of gold, Fountain of Zea!
Not even Castaly,
Fam'd though its streamlet be,
Murmurs or shines like thee,
Oh, Fount of Zea!
Thou, while our hymn we sing,
Thy silver voice shalt bring,
Answering, answering,
Sweet Fount of Zea!
For, of all rills that run,
Sparkling by moon or sun,
Thou art the fairest one,
Bright Fount of Zea!
Now, by those stars that glance
Over heaven's still expanse,
Weave we our mirthful dance,
Daughters of Zea!
Such as, in former days,
Danc'd they, by Dian's rays,
Where the Eurotas strays,
Oh, Maids of Zea!
But when to merry feet
Hearts with no echo beat,
Say, can the dance be sweet?
Maidens of Zea!
No, nought but Music's strain,
When Lovers part in pain,
Soothes, till they meet again,
Oh, Maids of Zea!
WHEN the Balaika
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 dancir g,
Shall chase them away.
When the Balaika,
Is heard o er the sea,
Thou'lt dance the Rom ika,
My own love, with me.
Then, at the closing
Of each merry lay,
How sweet 'tis 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 enew,
Treading so fleetly
Its light mazes through;
Till stars, looking o'er us
From heaven's high bow'rs,
Would change their bright chorus
For one dance of ours!
When the Balaika
Is heard o'er the sea
Thou'lt dance the Romaika,.
My own love, with me.
No life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,
Where, thron'd above this world,
Its strife at distance die.
Or, should the sound of hostile drum
Prociaim below, "We come
Each crag that tow'rs in air
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, thron'd 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,
To his rebeck's drowsy song,
He beguiles the hour along;
Or, provok'd 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.
UP with the sparkling brimmer,
Up to the crystal rim;
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.
WELCOME, Sweet bird, through the sunny air winging,
Swift hast thou come o'er the far-shining sea,
Like Seba's dove, on thy snowy neck bringing
Love's written vows from my lover to me.
Oh, in thy absence, what hours did I number!-
Saying oft, "Idle bird, how could he rest?"
But thou art come at last, take now thy slumber,
And lull thee in dreams of all thou lov'st best.
Yet dost thou droop-even now while I utter
Love's happy welcome, thy pulse dies away;
Cheer thee, my bird-were it life's ebbing flutter,
This fondling bosom should woo it to stay.
But no-thou'rt dying-thy last task is over—
Farewell, sweet martyr to Love and to me!
The smiles thou hast waken'd by news from my lover,
Will now all be turn'd into weeping for thee.
WHEN evening shades are falling
O'er Ocean's sunny sleep,
To pilgrims' hearts recalling
Their home beyond the deep;
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