A SONG OF DELOS.

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A SONG OF DELOS.

The Island of Delos was considered of such peculiar sanctity by the ancients, that they did not allow it to be desecrated by the events of birth or death. In the following poem, a young priestess of Apollo is supposed to be conveyed from its shores during the last hours of a mortal sickness, and to bid the scenes of her youth farewell in a sudden flow of unpremeditated song.

"Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature,

Je vous dois une larme aux bords de mon tombeau;
L'air est si parfumé! la lumiere est si pure!

Aux regards d'un Mourant le soleil est si beau!"

LAMARTINE.

A SONG was heard of old a low, sweet song,
On the blue seas by Delos: from that isle,
The Sun-god's own domain, a gentle girl,
Gentle yet all inspired of soul, of mien,
Lit with a life too perilously bright,

Was borne away to die. How beautiful
Seems this world to the dying!—but for her,
The child of beauty and of poesy,

And of soft Grecian skies-oh! who may dream
Of all that from her changeful eye flash'd forth,
Or glanced more quiveringly through starry tears,
As on her land's rich vision, fane o'er fane
Colour'd with loving light—she gazed her last,
Her young life's last, that hour! From her pale brow
And burning cheek she threw the ringlets back,
And bending forward-as the spirit sway'd
The reed-like form still to the shore beloved,
Breathed the swan-music of her wild farewell

O'er dancing waves:- "Oh! linger yet," she cried,

"Oh! linger, linger on the oar,

Oh! pause upon the deep!

That I may gaze yet once, once more, Where floats the golden day o'er fane and steep; Never so brightly smiled mine own sweet shore, -Oh! linger, linger on the parting oar!

"I see the laurels fling back showers
Of soft light still on many a shrine ;
I see the path to haunts of flowers
Through the dim olives lead its gleaming line;
I hear a sound of flutes-a swell of song-
Mine is too low to reach that joyous throng!

"Oh! linger, linger on the oar
Beneath my native sky!

Let my life part from that bright shore
With day's last crimson-gazing let me die!
Thou bark, glide slowly!-slowly should be borne
The voyager that never shall return.

"A fatal gift hath been thy dower,

Lord of the Lyre! to me;

With song and wreath from bower to bower, Sisters went bounding like young Oreads free; While I, through long, lone, voiceless hours apart, Have lain and listen'd to my beating heart.

"Now, wasted by the inborn fire,

I sink to early rest;

The ray that lit the incense-pyre,

Leaves unto death its temple in my breast.
-O sunshine, skies, rich flowers! too soon I go,

While round me thus triumphantly ye glow!

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

"Bright isle! might but thine echoes keep

A tone of my farewell,

One tender accent, low and deep,

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Shrined 'midst thy founts and haunted rocks to dwell! Might my last breath send music to thy shore ! -Oh! linger, seamen, linger on the oar!"

ANCIENT GREEK CHANT OF VICTORY.

"Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,

Our virgins dance beneath the shade."

Io! they come, they come!

Garlands for every shrine!
Strike lyres to greet them home:
Bring roses, pour ye wine!

Swell, swell the Dorian flute

BYRON.

Through the blue, triumphant sky!

Let the Cittern's tone salute

The sons of victory.

With the offering of bright blood

They have ransom'd hearth and tomb,

Vineyard, and field, and flood;

Io! they come, they come!

Sing it where olives wave,
And by the glittering sea,
And o'er each hero's grave—
Sing, sing, the land is free!

Mark ye the flashing oars,

And the spears that light the deep? How the festal sunshine pours

Where the lords of battle sweep!

Each hath brought back his shield;-
Maid, greet thy lover home!
Mother, from that proud field,
Io! thy son is come!

Who murmur'd of the dead?

Hush, boding voice! We know

That many a shining head

Lies in its glory low.

Breathe not those names to-day!

They shall have their praise ere long,

And a power all hearts to sway,

In ever-burning song.

But now shed flowers, pour wine,
To hail the conquerors home!
Bring wreaths for every shrine-
Io! they come, they come!

NAPLES.

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NAPLES.

A SONG OF THE SYREN.

"Then gentle winds arose,

With many a mingled close

Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odour keen;
Where the clear Baian ocean

Welters with air-like motion

Within, above, around its bowers of starry green."

SHELLEY.

STILL is the Syren warbling on thy shore,
Bright city of the waves!-her magic song
Still with a dreamy sense of ecstasy,

Fills thy soft Summer air:-and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of sunshine! doth the Syren sing.

"Thine is the glad wave's flashing play,
Thine is the laugh of the golden day,
The golden day, and the glorious night,
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light!
-Forget, forget, that thou art not free!
Queen of the Summer sea.

"Favour'd and crown'd of the earth and sky! Thine are all voices of melody,

Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower,

Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower;

Hark! how they melt o'er thy glittering sea;

-Forget that thou art not free!