"The sky is bright—the breeze is fair,
"And the mainsail flowing, full and free—
"Our farewell word is woman's prayer,
"And the hope before us—Liberty!
"Farewell, farewell.
"To Greece we give our shining blades,
"And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!
"The moon is in the heavens above,
"And the wind is on the foaming sea—
"Thus shines the star of woman's love
"On the glorious strife of Liberty!
"Farewell, farewell.
"To Greece we give our shining blades,
"And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"
Thus sung they from the bark, that now
Turned to the sea its gallant prow,
Bearing within its hearts as brave,
As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave;
And leaving on that islet's shore,
Where still the farewell beacons burn,
Friends that shall many a day look o'er
The long, dim sea for their return.
Virgin of Heaven! speed their way—
Oh, speed their way,—the chosen flower,
Of Zea's youth, the hope and stay
Of parents in their wintry hour,
The love of maidens and the pride
Of the young, happy, blushing bride,
Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died—
All, all are in that precious bark,
Which now, alas! no more is seen—
Tho' every eye still turns to mark
The moonlight spot where it had been.
Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,
And mothers, your beloved are gone!—
Now may you quench those signal fires,
Whose light they long looked back upon
From their dark deck—watching the flame
As fast it faded from their view,
With thoughts, that, but for manly shame,
Had made them droop and weep like you.
Home to your chambers! home, and pray
For the bright coming of that day,
When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweep
The Crescent from the Aegean deep,
And your brave warriors, hastening back,
Will bring such glories in their track,
As shall, for many an age to come,
Shed light around their name and home.
There is a Fount on Zea's isle,
Round which, in soft luxuriance, smile
All the sweet flowers, of every kind,
On which the sun of Greece looks down,
Pleased as a lover on the crown
His mistress for her brow hath twined,
When he beholds each floweret there,
Himself had wisht her most to wear;
Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreath
Hangs radiant round the Cypriot shines,
And here those bramble-flowers, that breathe
Their odor into Zante's wines:—
The splendid woodbine that, as eve,
To grace their floral diadems,
The lovely maids of Patmos weave:—[2]
And that fair plant whose tangled stems
Shine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread,
Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:—
All these bright children of the clime,
(Each at its own most genial time,
The summer, or the year's sweet prime,)
Like beautiful earth-stars, adorn
The Valley where that Fount is born;
While round, to grace its cradle green
Groups of Velani oaks are seen
Towering on every verdant height—
Tall, shadowy, in the evening light,
Like Genii set to watch the birth
Of some enchanted child of earth—
Fair oaks that over Zea's vales,
Stand with their leafy pride unfurled;
While Commerce from her thousand sails
Scatters their fruit throughout the world![4]
'Twas here—as soon as prayer and sleep
(Those truest friends to all who weep)
Had lightened every heart; and made
Even sorrow wear a softer shade—
'Twas here, in this secluded spot,
Amid whose breathings calm and sweet
Grief might be soothed if not forgot,
The Zean nymphs resolved to meet
Each evening now, by the same light
That saw their farewell tears that night:
And try if sound of lute and song,
If wandering mid the moonlight flowers
In various talk, could charm along
With lighter step, the lingering hours,
Till tidings of that Bark should come,
Or Victory waft their warriors home!
When first they met—the wonted smile
Of greeting having gleamed awhile—
'Twould touch even Moslem heart to see
The sadness that came suddenly
O'er their young brows, when they looked round
Upon that bright, enchanted ground;
And thought how many a time with those
Who now were gone to the rude wars
They there had met at evening's close,
And danced till morn outshone the stars!
But seldom long doth hang the eclipse
Of sorrow o'er such youthful breasts—
The breath from her own blushing lips,
That on the maiden's mirror rests,
Not swifter, lighter from the glass,
Than sadness from her brow doth pass.
Soon did they now, as round the Well
They sat, beneath the rising moon—
And some with voice of awe would tell
Of midnight fays and nymphs who dwell
In holy founts—while some would time
Their idle lutes that now had lain
For days without a single strain;—
And others, from the rest apart,
With laugh that told the lightened heart,
Sat whispering in each other's ear
Secrets that all in turn would hear;—
Soon did they find this thoughtless play
So swiftly steal their griefs away,
That many a nymph tho' pleased the while,
Reproached her own forgetful smile,
And sighed to think she could be gay.
Among these maidens there was one
Who to Leucadia[5] late had been—
Had stood beneath the evening sun
On its white towering cliffs and seen
The very spot where Sappho sung
Her swan-like music, ere she sprung
(Still holding, in that fearful leap,
By her loved lyre,) into the deep,
And dying quenched the fatal fire,
At once, of both her heart and lyre.
Mutely they listened all—and well
Did the young travelled maiden tell
Of the dread height to which that steep
Beetles above the eddying deep—[6]
Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling round
The dizzy edge with mournful sound—
And of those scented lilies found
Still blooming on that fearful place—
As if called up by Love to grace
The immortal spot o'er which the last
Bright footsteps of his martyr past!
While fresh to every listener's thought
These legends of Leucadia brought
All that of Sappho's hapless flame
Is kept alive, still watcht by Fame—
The maiden, tuning her soft lute,
While all the rest stood round her, mute,
Thus sketched the languishment of soul,
That o'er the tender Lesbian stole;
And in a voice whose thrilling tone
Fancy might deem the Lesbian's own,
One of those fervid fragments gave,
Which still,—like sparkles of Greek Fire,
Undying, even beneath the wave,—
Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire.
SONG.
As o'er her loom the Lesbian Maid
In love-sick languor hung her head,
Unknowing where her fingers strayed,
She weeping turned away, and said,
"Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—
"I cannot weave, as once I wove—
"So wildered is my heart and brain
"With thinking of that youth I love!"
Again the web she tried to trace,
But tears fell o'er each tangled thread;
While looking in her mother's face,
Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said,
"Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—
"I cannot weave, as once I wove—
"So wildered is my heart and brain
"With thinking of that youth I love!"
* * * * *
A silence followed this sweet air,
As each in tender musing stood,
Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer,
Of Sappho and that fearful flood:
While some who ne'er till now had known
How much their hearts resembled hers,
Felt as they made her griefs their own,
That they too were Love's worshippers.
At length a murmur, all but mute,
So faint it was, came from the lute
Of a young melancholy maid,
Whose fingers, all uncertain played
From chord to chord, as if in chase
Of some lost melody, some strain
Of other times, whose faded trace
She sought among those chords again.
Slowly the half-forgotten theme
(Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot)
Came to her memory—as a beam
Falls broken o'er some shaded spot;—
And while her lute's sad symphony
Filled up each sighing pause between;
And Love himself might weep to see
What ruin comes where he hath been—
As withered still the grass is found
Where fays have danced their merry round—
Thus simply to the listening throng
She breathed her melancholy song:—
SONG.
Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day,
Lonely and wearily life wears away.
Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night—
No rest in darkness, no joy in light!
Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread
Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead—
Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!
* * * * *
Of many a stanza, this alone
Had 'scaped oblivion—like the one
Stray fragment of a wreck which thrown
With the lost vessel's name ashore
Tells who they were that live no more.
When thus the heart is in a vein
Of tender thought, the simplest strain
Can touch it with peculiar power—
As when the air is warm, the scent
Of the most wild and rustic flower
Can fill the whole rich element—
And in such moods the homeliest tone
That's linked with feelings, once our own—
With friends or joy gone by—will be
Worth choirs of loftiest harmony!
But some there were among the group
Of damsels there too light of heart
To let their spirits longer droop,
Even under music's melting art;
And one upspringing with a bound
From a low bank of flowers, looked round
With eyes that tho' so full of light
Had still a trembling tear within;
And, while her fingers in swift flight
Flew o'er a fairy mandolin,
Thus sung the song her lover late
Had sung to her—the eve before
That joyous night, when as of yore
All Zea met to celebrate
The feast of May on the sea-shore.
SONG.
When the Balaika[7]
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 dancing
Shall chase them away.[8]
When the Balaika
Is heard o'er the sea,
Thou'lt dance the Romaika
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 renew,
Treading so fleetly
Its light mazes thro':[9]
Till stars, looking o'er us
From heaven's high bowers,
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.
* * * * *
How changingly for ever veers
The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears!
Even as in April the light vane
Now points to sunshine, now to rain.
Instant this lively lay dispelled
The shadow from each blooming brow,
And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held
Full empire o'er each fancy now.
But say—what shall the measure be?
"Shall we the old Romaika tread,"
(Some eager asked) "as anciently
"'Twas by the maids of Delos led,
"When slow at first, then circling fast,
"As the gay spirits rose—at last,
"With hand in hand like links enlocked,
"Thro' the light air they seemed to flit
"In labyrinthine maze, that mocked
"The dazzled eye that followed it?"
Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"—
While one young, dark-eyed Amazon,
Whose step was air-like and whose glance
Flashed, like a sabre in the sun,
Sportively said, "Shame on these soft
"And languid strains we hear so oft.
"Daughters of Freedom! have not we
"Learned from our lovers and our sires
"The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free—
"That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres,
"But sword and shield clash on the ear
"A music tyrants quake to hear?
"Heroines of Zea, arm with me
"And dance the dance of Victory!"
Thus saying, she, with playful grace,
Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face
(From Anatolia came the maid)
Hung shadowing each sunny charm;
And with a fair young armorer's aid,
Fixing it on her rounded arm,
A mimic shield with pride displayed;
Then, springing towards a grove that spread
Its canopy of foliage near,
Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said,
"To arms, to arms!" while o'er her head
She waved the light branch, as a spear.
Promptly the laughing maidens all
Obeyed their Chief's heroic call;—
Round the shield-arm of each was tied
Hat, turban, shawl, as chance might be;
The grove, their verdant armory,
Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied;
And as their glossy locks, let free,
Fell down their shoulders carelessly,
You might have dreamed you saw a throng
Of youthful Thyads, by the beam
Of a May moon, bounding along
Peneus' silver-eddied stream!
And now they stept, with measured tread,
Martially o'er the shining field;
Now to the mimic combat led
(A heroine at each squadron's head),
Struck lance to lance and sword to shield:
While still, thro' every varying feat,
Their voices heard in contrast sweet
With some of deep but softened sound
From lips of aged sires around,
Who smiling watched their children's play—
Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:—
SONG.
"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—
"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"
Such were the sounds to which the warrior boy
Danced in those happy days when Greece was free;
When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy,
Thus trained their steps to war and victory.
"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—
"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"
Such was the Spartan warriors' dance.
"Grasp the falchion—gird the shield—
"Attack—defend—do all but yield."
Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night,
Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the sea
That morning dawned by whose immortal light
They nobly died for thee and liberty![11]
"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—
"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"
Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.
* * * * *
Scarce had they closed this martial lay
When, flinging their light spears away,
The combatants, in broken ranks.
All breathless from the war-field fly;
And down upon the velvet banks
And flowery slopes exhausted lie,
Like rosy huntresses of Thrace,
Resting at sunset from the chase.
"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said—
One who himself had fought and bled,
And now with feelings half delight,
Half sadness, watched their mimic fight—
"Fond maids! who thus with War can jest—
"Like Love in Mar's helmet drest,
"When, in his childish innocence,
"Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,
"He thinks not of the blood that thence
"Is dropping o'er his snowy wings.
"Ay—true it is, young patriot maids,
"If Honor's arm still won the fray,
"If luck but shone on righteous blades,
"War were a game for gods to play!
"But, no, alas!—hear one, who well
"Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave—
"Hear me, in mournful ditty, tell
"What glory waits the patriot's grave."
SONG.
As by the shore, at break of day,
A vanquished chief expiring lay.
Upon the sands, with broken sword,
He traced his farewell to the Free;
And, there, the last unfinished word
He dying wrote was "Liberty!"
At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knell
Of him who thus for Freedom fell;
The words he wrote, ere evening came,
Were covered by the sounding sea;—
So pass away the cause and name
Of him who dies for Liberty!
* * * * *
That tribute of subdued applause
A charmed but timid audience pays,
That murmur which a minstrel draws
From hearts that feel but fear to praise,
Followed this song, and left a pause
Of silence after it, that hung
Like a fixt spell on every tongue.
At length a low and tremulous sound
Was heard from midst a group that round
A bashful maiden stood to hide
Her blushes while the lute she tried—
Like roses gathering round to veil
The song of some young nightingale,
Whose trembling notes steal out between
The clustered leaves, herself unseen.
And while that voice in tones that more
Thro' feeling than thro' weakness erred,
Came with a stronger sweetness o'er
The attentive ear, this strain was heard:—
SONG.
I saw from yonder silent cave,[12]
Two Fountains running side by side;
The one was Memory's limpid wave,
The other cold Oblivion's tide.
"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood,
As deep I drank of Lethe's stream,
"Be all my sorrows in this flood
"Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"
But who could bear that gloomy blank
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Memory's fount I drank.
And brought the past all back again;
And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,
"Still let this soul to thee be true—
"Rather than have one bliss forgot,
"Be all my pains remembered too!"
* * * * *
The group that stood around to shade
The blushes of that bashful maid,
Had by degrees as came the lay
More strongly forth retired away,
Like a fair shell whose valves divide
To show the fairer pearl inside:
For such she was—a creature, bright
And delicate as those day-flowers,
Which while they last make up in light
And sweetness what they want in hours.
So rich upon the ear had grown
Her voice's melody—its tone
Gathering new courage as it found
An echo in each bosom round—
That, ere the nymph with downcast eye
Still on the chords, her lute laid by,
"Another song," all lips exclaimed,
And each some matchless favorite named;
while blushing as her fingers ran
O'er the sweet chords she thus began:—
SONG.
Oh, Memory, how coldly
Thou paintest joy gone by:
Like rainbows, thy pictures
But mournfully shine and die.
Or if some tints thou keepest
That former days recall,
As o'er each line thou weepest,
Thy tears efface them all.
But, Memory, too truly
Thou paintest grief that's past;
Joy's colors are fleeting,
But those of Sorrow last.
And, while thou bringst before us
Dark pictures of past ill,
Life's evening closing o'er us
But makes them darker still.
* * * * *
So went the moonlight hours along,
In this sweet glade; and so with song
And witching sounds—not such as they,
The cymbalists of Ossa, played,
To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13]
But soft and holy—did each maid
Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile,
And win back Sorrow to a smile.
Not far from this secluded place,
On the sea-shore a ruin stood;—
A relic of the extinguisht race,
Who once o'er that foamy flood,
When fair Ioulis[14] by the light
Of golden sunset on the sight
Of mariners who sailed that sea,
Rose like a city of chrysolite
Called from the wave by witchery.
This ruin—now by barbarous hands
Debased into a motley shed,
Where the once splendid column stands
Inverted on its leafy head—
Formed, as they tell in times of old
The dwelling of that bard whose lay
Could melt to tears the stern and cold,
And sadden mid their mirth the gay—
Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' years
And ages past still bright appears—
Like Hesperus, a star of tears!
'Twas hither now—to catch a view
Of the white waters as they played
Silently in the light—a few
Of the more restless damsels strayed;
And some would linger mid the scent
Of hanging foliage that perfumed
The ruined walls; while others went
Culling whatever floweret bloomed
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 slumbered long
Were murmuring 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:—
SONG.
Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours,
The voice of Song in these neglected bowers?
They are gone—all gone!
The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone
That all who heard him wisht his pain their own—
He is gone—he is gone!
And she who while he sung sat listening 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 lay—
They are gone—they both are gone!
* * * * *
The moon was now, from heaven's steep,
Bending to dip her silvery urn
Into the bright and silent deep—
And the young nymphs, on their return
From those romantic ruins, found
Their other playmates ranged around
The sacred Spring, prepared to tune
Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon,
To that fair Fountain by whose stream
Their hearts had formed 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,[17]
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
Linked in harmonious dance and song,
Charmed 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 displayed.
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:—
SONG.
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,
Famed tho' 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
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!
