Its might, again to bless thee, and again!
Thou hast been gather'd into my dark fate
Too much; too long, for my sake, desolate
Hath been thine exiled youth: but now take back,
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack
(After a few kind tears for her whose days
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways
Of hope, and find thou happiness! Yet send
Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend!
Down to my voiceless chamber; for thy love
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above,
Though bought with burning tears! It is the sting
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing
In this cold world! What were it, then, if thou,
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now?
Too keen a pang! Farewell! and yet once more,
Farewell! The passion of long years I pour
Into that word! Thou hear'st not-but the woe
And fervour of its tones may one day flow
To thy heart's holy place; there let them dwell.
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell!
THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE
"Fear! I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death?
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom?
I will not live degraded."-SARDANAPALUS.
COME from the woods with the citron-flowers,
Come with your lyres for the festal hours,
Maids of bright Scio! They came, and the breeze
Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;
They came, and Eudora stood robed and crowned
The bride of the morn, with her train around.
Jewels flashed out from her braided hair,
Like starry dews midst the roses there :
Pearls on her bosom quivering shone,
Heaved by her heart through its golden zone.
But a brow, as those gems of the ocean pale,
Gleamed from beneath her transparent veil ;
Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue,
Though clear as a flower which the light looks through;
And the glance of her dark resplendent eye,
For the aspect of woman at times too high,
Lay floating in mists, which the troubled stream
Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam.
Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series
of the Curiosities of Literature.
THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE
She looked on the vine at her father's door,
Like one that is leaving his native shore;
She hung o'er the myrtle once call'd her own,
As it greenly waved by the threshold stone;
She turned-and her mother's gaze brought back
Each hue of her childhood's faded track.
Oh! hush the song, and let her tears
Flow to the dream of her early years!
Holy and pure are the drops that fall
When the young bride goes from her father's hall;
She goes unto love yet untried and new,
She parts from love which hath still been true:
Mute be the song and the choral strain,
Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again!
She wept on her mother's faithful breast,
Like a babe that sobs itself to rest;
She wept-yet laid her hand awhile
In his that waited her dawning smile--
Her soul's affianced, nor cherished less
For the gush of nature's tenderness !
She lifted her graceful head at last—
The choking swell of her heart was past;
And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.*
WHY do I weep? To leave the vine
Whose clusters o'er me bend;
* A Greek bride, on leaving her father's house, takes leave of her friends and relatives frequently in extemporaneous verses. -See FAURIEL's Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne.
The myrtle-yet, oh call it mine!
The flowers I loved to tend.
A thousand thoughts of all things dear
Like shadows o'er me sweep;
I leave my sunny childhood here,
Oh! therefore let me weep!
I leave thee, sister! We have played
Through many a joyous hour,
Where the silvery green of the olive shade
Hung dim o'er fount and bower.
Yes! thou and I, by stream, by shore,
In song, in prayer, in sleep,
Have been as we may be no more-
Kind sister, let me weep!
I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon
Must now light other feet,
With the gathered grapes, and the lyre in tune,
Thy homeward step to greet.
Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child,
Lay tones of love so deep,
Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled-
I leave thee! let me weep!
Mother! I leave thee! On thy breast
Pouring out joy and woe,
I have found that holy place of rest
Still changeless-yet I go !
Lips, that have lulled me with your strain!
Eyes, that have watched my sleep!
Will earth give love like yours again?—
Sweet mother! let me weep!
THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE
And like a slight young tree, that throws
The weight of rain from its drooping boughs,
Once more she wept. But a changeful thing
Is the human heart-as a mountain spring
That works its way through the torrent's foam
To the bright pool near it, the lily's home!
It is well!-The cloud on her soul that lay,
Hath melted in glittering drops away.
Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre!
She turns to her lover, she leaves her sire.
Mother! on earth it must still be so :
Thou rearest the lovely to see them go !
They are moving onward, the bridal throng, Ye may track their way by the swells of song;
Ye may catch through the foliage their white robes' gleam, Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream; Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread
Is over the deep-veined violet's bed;
They have light leaves around them, blue skies above, An arch for the triumph of Youth and Love!
STILL and sweet was the home that stood
In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood,
With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread,
As if from the glow of an emerald shed,
Pouring through lime-leaves that mingled on high,
Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky.
Citrons amidst their dark foliage glowed,
Making a gleam round the lone abode;
Laurels o'erhung it, whose faintest shiver
Scattered out rays like a glancing river;
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