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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 ;—
While no curious hind in the noon-tide's magical ardour,*
Peeps through the blossomy trellice, that over the pool's dark
crystal

Guards the immaculate forms of the awful Olympian bathers ;
While at the wide stream-mouth never one, one, amorous Triton
Breathes to the surge and the tall marsh-blooms euphonious
passion.

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,
Our hearts have followed; now the pleasant care
Is near its end, the oars' sweet-echoed play,
Falls on the cliffs of Ithaca's deep bay ;-
The enemy, on whose impetuous breast

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
Gay-garlanded, with grand triumphal song?
Leaps he upon the strand, and proudly vows

Dire vengeance unto all who did him wrong?
Not so; for him, all force and passion strong,
And fretful tumult, for a while are o'er,-

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,
As this pure artist-touch, this tender ray,
A perfect-simple light of poesy;

Not the nice wiles of chaste Penelope,—
Not the poor pining dog that died of joy,—

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,
Still make rich trace'ry in the sacred Cave,-
Where peasants the dark-shadowed Fountain cold,
Hail by the name the Poet found or gave,
Where on the Eagle-height the walls out-brave
All time, and only the full-fruited vine

Trails o'er the home,-it may be o'er the grave,
Of Him for whom these memories combine,-

Rest, care-worn mortal! rest, and let his sleep be thine.

THIAKE, 1832.

OLYMPUS.

WITH no sharp-sided peak or sudden cone,
Thou risest o'er the blank Thessalian plain,
But in the semblance of a rounded throne,
Meet for a monarch and his noble train
To hold high synod ;-but I feel it vain,
With my heart full and passionate as now,

To frame my humble verse, as I would fain,
To calm description,—I can only bow

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)
When first I entered, and unconscious knelt
Within the Roman Martyr's sanctuary :
I feel that ages laid their faith on Thee,
And if to me thou art a holy hill,

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,
To wall about with awe the chosen ground,—

All without toil of slaves or lavished gold,
Thou wert upbuilt of memories profound,
Imaginations wonderful and old,

And the pure gems that lie in Poets' hearts untold.

God was upon Thee in a thousand forms
Of Terror and of Beauty, stern and fair,
Upgathered in the majesty of storms,

Or floating in the film of summer air;

Thus wert Thou made ideal everywhere;
From Thee the odorous plumes of Love were spread,
Delight and plenty through all lands to bear,——
From Thee the never-erring bolt was sped

To curb the impious hand or blast the perjured head.

How many a Boy, in his full noon of faith,
Leaning against the Parthenon, half-blind
With inner light, and holding in his breath,
Awed by the image of his own high mind,
Has seen the Goddess there so proudly shrined,

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 ;
But I can weep this moment, when thy brow,
Light-covered with fresh hoar of autumn snow,
Shines in white light and chillness, which bestow
New grace of reve'rend loveliness, as seen

With the long mass of gloomy hills below:
Blest be our open faith! too grand, I ween,

To grudge these votive tears to Beauty that has been.

LARISA, 1832.

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