A bashful maiden stood, to hide

And said, 'Oh Love! whate'er my lot, Still let this soul to thee be trueRather than have one bliss forgot,

Be all my pains remember'd too!' The group that stood around, to shade The blushes of that bashful maid, Had, by degrees, as swell'd the lay More strongly forth, retir'd 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 Gath'ring new courage, as it found An echo in each bosom roundThat, ere the nymph (with downcast eye Still on the chords) her lute laid by, 'Another Song,' all lips exclaim'd,

Like roses, gath'ring round to veil
The song of some young nightingale,
Whose trembling notes steal out be-
tween

The clustered leaves, herself unseen.
And, as that voice, in tones that more
Through feeling than through weak-
ness err'd,

Came, with a stronger sweetness, o'er Th' attentive ear, this strain was heard.

SONG.

I SAW, from yonder silent cave,1
Two Fountains running, side by side,
The one was Mem'ry's limpid wave,

The other cold Oblivion's tide.
'Oh Love!' said I, in thoughtless mood,
As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd,
'Here in this dark and chilly stream
Be all my pains forgot at last.'
But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Mem'ry's fount I drank,

And brought the past all back again:

While blushing, as her fingers ran
O'er the sweet chords, she thus began.

SONG.

Он, 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 paint'st the grief that's past; Joy's colours are fleeting,

But those of Sorrow last. And while thou bring'st 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

1

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 th' extinguish'd race, Who once look'd o'er that foamy

flood,

When fair Ioulis,2 by the light Of golden sunset, on the sight Of mariners who sail'd that sea, Rose, like a city of chrysolite, Call'd from the wave by witchery. This ruin-now by barb'rous hands Debas'd into a motley shed, Where the once splendid column stands Inverted on its leafy headWas, 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 gaySimonides, whose fame, through years And ages past, still bright appearsLike Hesperus, a star of tears!

3

'Twas hither now-to catch a view Of the white waters, as they play'd Silently in the light-a few

Of the more restless damsels stray'd; And some would linger 'mid the scent Of hanging foliage, that perfum'd The ruin'd walls; while others went, Culling whatever floweret bloom'd 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 FreeAnd thought, 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,

This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro della Valle tells us, among the Persians.

2 An ancient city of Zia, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke)

Those minstrel halls had slumber'd long Were murm'ring into life again.

But, no-the nymphs knew well the tone

A maiden of their train, who lov'd, Like the night-bird, to sing alone,

Had deep into those ruins roved,
And there, all other thoughts forgot,
A lay that, on that very spot,
Was warbling o'er in lone delight,

Her lover sung
night-

SONG.

one moonlight

АH! where are they, who heard, in former hours,

The voice of Song in these neglected bow'rs!

They are gone-they all are gone!

The youth, who told his pain in such That all who heard him, wished his sweet tone, 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 Of light into the silent deep

And the young nymphs, on their return

From those romantic ruins, found Their other playmates, rang'd around

'extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name.'

3 Zia was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called' tears.'

The sacred Spring, prepar'd to tune Their parting hymn,1 ere sunk the moon To that fair Fountain, by whose stream Their hearts had form'd so many a dream.

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
Hours,

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 shone?

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
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 Zia!

These 'Songs of the Well,' as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece. De Guys tells us that he has seen the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them.'

2 The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state, the same rendezvous as it

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!

was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continu ally from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they preserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification.'-Clarke.

3Qualis in Eurotæ ripis, aut per juga Cynthi Exercet Diana choros.'- Virgil.