The youth, who told his pain in such sweet tone, That all, who heard him, wish'd his pain their own

He is gone he is gone!

And she, who, while he sung, sat list'ning 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 layThey are gone-they both are gone!

The moon was now, from Heaven's steep,
Bending to dip her silv'ry urn
Into the bright and silent deep—

And the young nymphs, on their return
From those romantic ruins, found
Their other playmates, rang'd around
The sacred Spring, prepar'd 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' sacred Well,
Or heard what legend-songs recount
Of Syra, and its holy Fount,2
Gushing, at once, from the hard rock
Into the laps of living flowers-
Where village maidens lov'd 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?

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 :

1 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."

"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

SECOND EVENING.

SONG.

WHEN evening shades are falling
O'er Ocean's sunny sleep,
To pilgrims' hearts recalling

Their home beyond the deep;
When, rest o'er all descending,

The shores with gladness smile, And lutes, their echoes blending, Are heard from isle to isle, Then, Mary, Star of the Sea, 1 We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over,

Now Ocean toils no more, And wings of halcyons hover, Where all was strife before. Oh thus may life, in closing

Its short tempestuous day, Beneath heaven's smile reposing, Shine all its storms away: Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea, We pray, we pray, to thee!

On Helle's sea the light grew dim,
As the last sounds of that sweet hymn
Floated along its azure tide-

Floated in light, as if the lay
Had mix'd with sunset's fading ray,
And light and song together died.
So soft through evening's air had breath'd
That choir of youthful voices, wreath'd
In many-linked harmony,

That boats, then hurrying o'er the sea,
Paus'd, when they reach'd this fairy shore,
And linger'd till the strain was o'er.

Of those young maids who've met to fleet
In song and dance this evening's hours,
Far happier now the bosoms beat,

Than when they last adorn'd these bowers; For tidings of glad sound had come,

At break of day, from the far islesTidings like breath of life to someThat Zea's sons would soon wing home, Crown'd with the light of Vict'ry's smiles To meet that brightest of all meeds That wait on high, heroic deeds,

1 One of the titles of the Virgin: -" Maria illuminatrix, sive Stella Maris."- Isidor.

When gentle eyes that scarce, for tears,
Could trace the warrior's parting track,
Shall, like a misty morn that clears,
When the long-absent sun appears,

Shine out, all bliss, to hail him back.

How fickle still the youthful breast!-
More fond of change than a young moon,
No joy so new was e'er possess'd

But Youth would leave for newer soon. These Zean nymphs, though bright the spot, Where first they held their evening play, As ever fell to fairy's lot

To wanton o'er by midnight's ray,
Had now exchang'd that shelter'd scene
For a wide glade beside the sea-
A lawn, whose soft expanse of green
Turn'd to the west sun smilingly,
As though, in conscious beauty bright,
It joy'd to give him light for light.
And ne'er did evening more serene
Look down from heav'n on lovelier scene.
Calm lay the flood around, while fleet,

O'er the blue shining element,
Light barks, as if with fairy feet

That stirr'd not the hush'd waters, went; Some that, ere rosy eve fell o'er

The blushing wave, with mainsail free,
Had put forth from the Attic shore,
Or the near Isle of Ebony;-
Some, Hydriot barks, that deep in caves
Beneath Colonna's pillar'd cliffs,
Had all day lurk'd, and o'er the waves

Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs.
Woe to the craft, however fleet,
These sea-hawks in their course shall meet,
Laden with juice of Lesbian vines,
Or rich from Naxos' emery mines;
For not more sure, when owlets flee
O'er the dark crags of Pendelee,
Doth the night-falcon mark his prey,
Or pounce on it more fleet than they.

And what a moon now lights the glade
Where these young island nymphs are met!
Full-orb'd, yet pure, as if no shade

Had touch'd its virgin lustre yet;
And freshly bright, as if just made
By Love's own hands, of new-born light
Stol'n from his mother's star to-night.

On a bold rock, that o'er the flood Jutted from that soft glade, there stood A Chapel, fronting tow'rds the sea,— Built in some by-gone century,—

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 immortalis'd her rills; Nor aught but the mute poesy Of sun, and stars, and shining sea Illum'd 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,1
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 pallet mingled fresh, might choose
To fix by Painting's rainbow hues.

The wreath was form'd; the maiden rais'd
Her speaking eyes to his, while he -
Oh not upon the flowers now gaz'd,

But on that bright look's 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 raptur'd 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.2

His prayer, as soon as breath'd, was heard; His pallet, 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 colours glow'd before.

Then first carnations learn'd to speak,
And lillies 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,
Inshrin'd 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 clos'd, 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 bason 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

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:
Happly 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 bough—
Trophy 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 4," 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.

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:-

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,

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

T