"Twas 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 perfum'd The ruin'd walls; while others went, Culling whatever flow'ret 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 FreeThinking, 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 toneA maiden of their train, who lov'd, Like the night-bird, to sing alone, Had deep into those ruins rov'd, 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: SONG. AH! where are they, who heard, in former hours, The voice of Song in these neglected bow'rs? They are gone - all gone! a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ionlis received its name." 3 Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears." Who has not read the tales, that tell On summer-nights, and, like the hours, 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 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 : 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." 2 "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 SONG. HERE, while the moonlight dim Sing we our Fountain Hymn, 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, Oh, Fount of Zea! Thou, while our hymn we sing, Thy silver voice shall 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, 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 gentle eyes that scarce, for tears, 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, And ne'er did evening more serene O'er the blue shining element, That stirr'd not the hush'd waters, went; Some that, ere rosy eve fell o'er The blushing wave, with mainsail free, Now shot their long and dart-like skiffs. And what a moon now lights the glade Had touch'd its virgin lustre yet; 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, But lighter thoughts and lighter song With silken folds, through which, bright eyes, 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; Ere yet the simple violet braid,1 1" Violet-crowned Athens."- Pindar. Till deified the quarry shone And all Olympus stood in stone! There, in the foreground of that scene, All that was there of hue most rich, The wreath was form'd; the maiden rais'd But on that bright look's witchery. From lips as moonlight fresh and pure, Thus hail'd the bright dream passing there, And sung the Birth of Portraiture.2 |