Still, in the dusky ravine, they deepen and freshen their waters, Still, in the thick-arched coves, they slumber and dimple de lighted, Catching the full-swelled fig and the deep-stained arbutus ruby, Still, to the sea's sand-brim, by royally gay oleanders, And oriental array of reeds, they are ever attended; But they are all dumb forms, unimpregnate with vital emotion, While, from the pure fount-head, no Nymph, her bosom ex panding, Dazzles the way-worn wretch with the smile of her bland benediction, Giving the welcomed draught mysterious virtue and savour ;— Guards the immaculate forms of the awful Olympian bathers ; These high Temples around, the religious shade of the olive Falls on the grass close-wove ;-in the redolent valley beneath us, Stems of the loftiest platain their crowns large-leavèd are spread ing, While the most motley of herds is adorning the calm of their umbrage ; Yet ye are gone, ye are vanished for ever, ye guardian Beings! Who, in the time-gnarled trunks, broad branches, and summer enchantment * On the mystical power of noon in the appearance of supernatural beings, vide Theocritus, i. 15; Lucan, iii. 422; Philostratus, Heroic. i. art. 4; Porphyrius de Antro Nymph. c. xxvi. and xxvii. Held an essential life and a power, as over your members,— Soothing the rage of the storm by your piteous moans of entreaty, Staying the impious axe in the paralysed hand of the woodman. Daphne, tremulous nymph, has fled the benignant asylum Which, in the shape of the laurel, she found from the heat of Apollo ; Wan Narcissus has languished away from the languishing flower ; Hyacinth dwells no more in his brilliant abode, and the stranger Reads the memorial signs he has left, with a curious pleasure. Thou art become, oh Echo! a voice, an inanimate image; Where is the palest of maids, dark-tressed, dark-wreathèd with ivy, Who with her lips half-opened, and gazes of beautiful wonder, Quickly repeated the words that burst on her lonely recesses, Low in a love-lorn tone, too deep-distracted to answer? What must have been thy Nature, oh Greece! when, marvellouslovely Now as it is, it is only the tomb of an ancient existence? THE RETURN OF ULYSSES. THE Man of wisdom and endurance rare, A sundry-coloured and strange-featured way, The hero rode undaunted, night and day, (Such was Minerva's power, and Jove's behest) Scorns the inglorious strife and lays his wrath to rest. And how returns the tempest-tossed? his prows Dire vengeance unto all who did him wrong? He is borne gently, placidly, along, And laid upon his own beloved shore, Even as a wearied child, in quiet sleep once more! There is no part of that archaic Lay, That strikes with such resistless power on me, Not the nice wiles of chaste Penelope,— Not the grey smoke the wandeʼrer yearned to see, Whose wavings he had traced, a careless boy, Sweet as they are, for me this prefer❜ence can destroy. Where the "stone distaffs" of the nymphs of old, Trails o'er the home,-it may be o'er the grave, Rest, care-worn mortal! rest, and let his sleep be thine. THIAKE, 1832. OLYMPUS. WITH no sharp-sided peak or sudden cone, To frame my humble verse, as I would fain, My head and soul, and ask again, "if that be Thou?" I feel before thee, as of old I felt, (With sense, as just, more vivid in degree) Let not the Pious scorn,-that Piety Though veiled, that Truth, though shadowy, were still All the world had to raise its heart and fallen will. Thou Shrine! which man, of his own natural thought, Gave to the God of Nature, and girt round With elemental mightiness, and brought Splendour of form and depth of thundeʼrous sound, All without toil of slaves or lavished gold, And the pure gems that lie in Poets' hearts untold. God was upon Thee in a thousand forms Or floating in the film of summer air; Thus wert Thou made ideal everywhere; To curb the impious hand or blast the perjured head. How many a Boy, in his full noon of faith, Leave for awhile her loved especial home, And pass, though wingless, on the northward wind, On to thy height, beneath the' eternal dome, Where Heaven's grand councils wait, 'till Wisdom's self shall come. Ours is another world, and godless now Thy ample crown; 'tis well,-yes,—be it so ; With the long mass of gloomy hills below: To grudge these votive tears to Beauty that has been. LARISA, 1832. |