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-
Thinking, 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 murm'ring into life again.

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 those 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:—

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,23
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?
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:

Now, by those stars that glance
Over heaven's still expanse,
Weave we our mirthful dance,
Daughters of Zea!
Such as, in former days,
Danced 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, naught but Music's strain, When lovers part in pain, Soothes, till they meet again, Oh, Maids of Zea!

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,25 We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noonday 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 breathed That choir of youthful voices, wreathed

In many-linked harmony,

That boats, then hurrying o'er the sea, Paused, 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, 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 qut, 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 exchanged 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 shown 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,20 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;
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 was form'd; the maiden raised
Her speaking eyes to his, while he―
Oh not upon the flowers now gazed,

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 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."

SONG.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bow'rs, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flow'rs.

The youth was skill'd in Painting's art,
But ne'er had studied woman's brow,
Nor knew what magic hues the heart
Can shed o'er Nature's charms, till now.

CHORUS.

Bless'd be Love, to whom we owe All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketch'd the rays that light the brook; But what were these, or what were those, To woman's blush, to woman's look? "Oh, if such magic pow'r there be,

"This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer, "To paint that living light I see,

"And fix the soul that sparkles there."

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.

Bless'd 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.

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, 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!"28 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.20

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.30 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.

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,

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;

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 bless'd, when night is closing,
By the kindled hearth reposing,
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.