Cruel Leucadia! and ye winds that sweep Round every Grecian isle, and hallow'd steep! Why mourn'd ye not, when injur'd beauty gave Her glory, and her genius to the wave;
Why heard unmov'd the immortal notes expire, The burning breath of love, the ætherial song of fire!
Each mystic spring that feeds the Aonian well
Is ours—the music of Cyrene's shell;
Or that, the later lay thou lov'st, that told
Of those brave kings, and of the fleece of gold,
Their prows to Phasis turn'd, ploughing the
Euxine old.
Gazing the wondrous barque,—the Centaur band
Shake their huge manes, and stamp the oozy strand;
Loud conchs are sounding from each mountain cave,
And through the glittering woods barbaric lances
Or if the Dorian reed delight thine ear, [wave.
The shadowy vales, and wild birds warbling near.
The sparkling streams that down their channel
The murmur of the bee, the whispering pine,
And sun-gilt cliffs purpled with many a vine,
Sweet violet banks beside the silver wave,
And fountains flashing from their rocky cave.
While satyr-forms, and sounds of sylvan feet
Pass by, and nymphs flying with sandals fleet.
Leave Phasidamus, and the stream that shines Of old Anapus, and the murmuring pines!
And let the Syracusan shepherd sleep
Where through cool grots the glancing waters leap!
Now wake the harp that Chios loved to hear
In his lone caves, (no doubtful legend fear)
When Time himself was young--by Meles' stream
An old blind man was sitting; while a gleam
(It was Apollo's) lit his cheek, and young
And old around in mute attention hung;
Ionian girls were with him as he sung,
Each with her lover, and with lips apart
All stood, and breathless, and with beating heart,
Gods! 'twas a witching tale !-of heaven-built
And bright-hair'd Helen, and the shepherd boy From Ida's shores, and how the billowy tide For her he crost, and beckoning to the bride, 'Come to green Ida's pines, my couch is there' he cried.
Beautiful Helen! by thy shepherd's cave Ah! wilt thou dream with me of Simois' fairer wave?
And leaning on thy lover's bosom say,
While round thy feet its sparkling waters play,
"Forever, gentle stream, ah! here for ever stray."
Then did the minstrels of the house lament,
As from her bower the queen of beauty went,
Went, gliding with soft footstep, and unseen,
Fled with her lover o'er the ocean green.
And he who home returning, in his gate
Found sorrow,
and a hearth all desolate;
Disgrac'd by her he lov'd-forsaken-left,
Of all the treasure of his heart bereft ;
O'er her pale statue (she was imag'd there,
E'en in his hall) gazing with mute despair,
Her damask'd chambers of their mistress bare,
Her handmaids weeping round,-with tearful eye,
He knew the nuptial bower, and left it with a
sigh.
Then the red beacons wav'd their beards of flame,
Then o'er the deep the mailed warriors came,
Breathing revenge-" disgrace he brought, and
shame,
To the Atridæ-
e-a dishonour'd name."
Pale Asia trembled, as the kind'ing strain
Woke the fierce war, and shook the ensanguin'd
The battle bled-Scamander roll'd with gore.-
What shades are moving on the moonlight shore?
Who waits expectant of her lord's return
In the Argive halls? what festal torches burn?
Alas! yon broken armour, and an urn,
Is all she holds-all that is left to tell,
Beneath barbaric spears the flower of Hellas fell.
Break off!-for time is list'ning to the lay,
Heard from the syren shores, along the bay
Of green Parthenope—the later theme
Immortal, sung by him in mystic dream,
Whose marble seat is still on Arno's shelving
is clos'd. See Nature's darling laid An infant yet, in Avon's classic shade. Hark! his wild notes are floating down the vale, Like blossoms scatter'd in the summer gale. I mark thy hand each latent thought refine, Stamp with the seal of truth the Delphic line; O'er Fletcher's song bid new-born Pity weep, And wake the Muse of Shirley from her sleep. Oh, friend! as oft I hail thy taste refin'd, Thy gentle manners, thy congenial mind; Those studious hours that leave no page unknown,
Of all that Rome or Athens call'd their own; Thine the fair flowers on Tiber's banks that smile,And thine a wreath from each Ægean isle, With many a violet mix'd from Britain's gothic pile;
Secure of fame, thy future path I see,
And mark another Parnell rise in thee.
Farewell! e'en now I leave, where Thames's wave
His lucid mirror spreads by St. John's grave,
(Yon little hamlet, once a vulgar name,
Lives in the lines that mark the statesman's fame,
And studious he each nobler grace to blend,
At once the senate's strength, the poet's friend).
For my lone woods I quit the insatiate throng
(The child alike of sorrow and of song);
And still the same, as when I wander'd pale
By far Sorrento's cliffs, and Sorga's vale;
Or when Ardennes' green forests saw me roam
Their leafy glens, nor wish a fairer home.
Ah! then, St. Hubert! who so pleas'd as me,
Wandering at will, beneath thy forest tree;
Or where the antler'd herds at early dawn
Graze the green wealth of many a flowery lawn;
Or list'ning in thy chapel, legends old
Of the brave knight, and of the spurs of gold,
By the grey Sacristain in mystery told.
Yet what if time around my temples pour
Its lenient dews, a sweet exhaustless store;
And Nature, to regain what grief may part,
Spread the fresh tide of feeling round the heart ?—
Fled is the Morn of Life! yet left me still,
The vale secluded, and the whispering rill:
Content amid the silent woods to hear
Soft falls of water murmuring in the ear.
View the wild flowers their fragrant bells unfold,
Spread the small leaf, and ope their cups of gold.
Round the still pool the martlet's wing to see,
To mark the linnet warbling from the tree,
Or to his nectar'd hive watch home the yellow
bee.
Or now at Eve, from the tall mountain's crest,
Catching the purple splendours of the West:
Yon level length of shore—the headland grey,
Far seen and many a barge and pinnace gay,
With flag and flashing oar moor'd in the golden
bay.
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