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The sacred Spring, prepar'd to tune
Their parting hymn, ere sunk the moon
To that fair Fountain, by whose stream
Their hearts had form'd so many a


Who has not read the tales, that tell
Of old Eleusis' worshipp'd Well,
Or heard what legend-songs recount
Of Syra, and its sacred Fount, 2
Gushing, at once, from the hard rock

Into the laps of living flowers-
Where village maidens lov'd to flock,
On summer-nights, and, like the

Link'd in harmonious dance and song,
Charm'd 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


Nothing but Music's strain,
When Lovers part in pain,
Soothes, till they meet again,

Oh, Maids of Zia!
Bright Fount, so clear and cold,
Round which the nymphs of old,
Stood, with their locks of gold,

Bright Fount of Zia !
Not even Castaly,
Fam'd though its streamlet be,
Murmurs or shines like thee,

Oh, Fount of Zia!
Thou, while our hymn we sing,
Thy silver voice shalt bring,
Answering, answering,

Sweet Fount of Zia !
Oh ! of all rills that run,
Sparkling by moon or sun,
Thou art the fairest one,

Bright Fount of Zia !
Now, by those stars that glance
Over heaven's still expanse,
Weave we our mirthful dance,

Daughters of Zia !
Such as, in former days,
Danc'd were by Dian's rays,
Where the Eurotas strays,}

Oh, Maids of Zia !
But when to merry feet
Hearts with no echo beat,
Say, can the dance be sweet?

Maidens of Zia !
No, nought but Music's strain,
When lovers part in pain,
Soothes, till they meet again,

Oh, Maids of Zia !

Such was the scene this lovely glade
And its fair inmates now display'd,
As round the Fount, in linked ring,
They went, in cadence slow and

And thus to that enchanted Spring
Warbled their Farewell for the



HERE, while the moonlight dim
Falls on that mossy brim,
Sing we our Fouutain Hymn,

Maidens of Zia!

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These 'Songs of the Well, as they were was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the De Guys tells us that he has seen the young, town, and the most limpid water gushes continu: women in Prince's Island, assembled in the ally from the solid rock. It is regarded by the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; dance, while others sung in concert to them.' and they preserve a tradition, that the pilgrims

2 . The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither modern, may be considered as the worshippers of for purification.'— Clarke. water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists

3. Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi in its original state, the same rendezvous as it

Exercet Diana choros.' - Virgil




Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear
And blue a heaven as ever blessed this sphere,
Gardens, and pillared streets, and porphyry domes
And high-built temples, fit to be the homes
Of mighty gods, and pyramids, whose hour
Outlasts all time, above the waters tower !

Then, too, the scenes of pomp and joy that make
One theatre of this vast peopled lake,
Where all that Love, Religion, Commerce gives
Of life and motion, ever moves and lives.
Here, up the steps of temples, from the wave
Ascending, in procession slow and grave,
Priests in white garınents go, with sacred wands
And silver cymbals gleaming in their hands :
While there, rich barks-fresh from those sunny tracts
Far off, beyond the sounding cataracts-
Glide with their precious lading to the sea,
Plumes of bright birds, rhinoceros' ivory,
Gems from the isle of Meroë, and those grains
Of gold, washed down by Abyssinian rains.

Here, where the waters wind into a bay
Shadowy and cool, some pilgrims on their way
To Sais or Bubastus, among beds
Of lotus flowers that close above their heads,
Push their light barks, and hid, as in a bower,
Sing, talk, or sleep away the sultry hour,
While haply, not far off, beneath a bank
Of blossoming acacias, many a prank
Is played in the cool current by a train
Of laughing nymphs, lovely as she whose chain
Around two conquerors of the world was cast;
But, for a third too feeble, broke at last.

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Glimpses of glory ne'er forgot,

That tell, like gleams on a sunset sea, What once hath been, what now is not,

But oh ! what again shall brightly be!'



We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit And the violet hue of thy flower,

And the greeting mute

Of thy boughs' salute
To the stranger who seeks thy bowcr.

O Abyssinian tree !

How the traveller blesses thee; When the light no moon allows, And the sunset hour is near,

And thou bend'st thy boughs

To kiss his brows,
Saying, 'Come, rest thee here.'

0 Abyssinian tree !
Thus bow thy head to me!





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