BLEST BE LOVE.

As once a Grecian maiden wove

Her garland mid the summer bow'rs, There stood a youth, with eyes of love,

To watch her while she wreathed the flowers. The youth was skill'd in Painting's art, But ne'er had studied woman's brow, Nor known the colouring, which the heart Can shed o'er Nature's charms, till now.

CHORUS.

Blest be Love, to whom we owe
All that's fair and bright below.

His hand had pictured many a rose,

And sketch'd the rays that light the brook;
But what were these, or what were those,
To woman's blush, to woman's look?
"Oh! if such magic pow'r there be,
This, this," he cried, "is all my pray'r,
To paint that living light I see,

And fix the soul that sparkles there."

His prayer, as soon as breath'd, was heard,
His pallet, touch'd by Love, grew warm,
And Painting saw her hues transferr'd
From lifeless flowers to woman's form.
Still as from tint to tint he stole,

The fair design shone out the more,
And there was now a life, a soul,
Where only colours glow'd before.

Then first carnations learn'd to speak,
And lilies into life were brought;
While, mantling on the maiden's cheek,
Young roses kindled into thought.
Then hyacinths their darkest dyes
Upon the locks of Beauty threw;
And violets, transformed to eyes,
Inshrined a soul within their blue.

But soon that summons, known so well
Through bower and hall, in Eastern lands,
Whose sound, more sure than gong or beil,
Lovers and slaves alike commands,

The clapping of young female bands,
Calls back the groups from rock and field
To see some new-form'd scene reveal'd;
And fleet and eager, down the slopes
Of the green glade, like antelopes,
When, in their thirst, they hear the sound
Of far-off rills, the light nymphs bound.

Far different now the scene, a waste
Of Lybian sands, by moonlight's ray,
An ancient well, whereon were traced,
The warning words, for such as stray
Unarmed there, "Drink and away!"
While, near it, from the night-ray screen'd,
And like his bells, in hush'd repose,
A camel slept, - young as if wean'd
When last the star, Canopus, rose. 2

Such was the back-ground's silent scene;
While, near the eye lay, slumbering too,
In a rude tent, with brow serene,

A youth whose cheeks of way-worn hue,
And pilgrim-bonnet, told the tale
That he had been to MECCA'S Vale:
Haply in pleasant dreams, ev'n now

Thinking the long wished hour is come
When, o'er the well-known porch at home,
His hand shall hang the aloe bough,
Trophy of his accomplish'd vow.

4

But brief his dream-for now the call
Of the camp-chiefs from rear to van,
"Bind on your burdens," wakes up all
The widely slumbering caravan;
And thus meanwhile, to greet the ear
Of the young pilgrim as he wakes,
The song of one who, lingering near,
Had watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.

THE CARAVAN SONG.

I.

Up and march! the timbrel's sound
Wakes the slumb'ring cap around;
Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,
Armed sleeper, up, and on!
Long and weary is our way
O'er the burning sands to day;
But to pilgrim's homeward feet

Ev'n the desert's path is sweet!

1 The travelier Shaw mentions a beautiful rill in Barbary, which is received into a large bason called Shrub wee krub, “Drink and away,” - there being great danger of meeting with thieves and assassins, in such places.

2 The Arabian shepherd has a peculiar ceremony in weaning the young camel: when the proper time arrives, he turns the camel towards the rising star, Canopus, and says, "Do you see Canopus? from this moment you taste not another drop of milk." Richardson.

3 Whoever returns from a pilgrimage to Mecca hangs this plant (the mitre-shaped Aloe) over his street door, as a token of his having performed this holy journey." Hasselquist.

4 This form of notice to the caravans to prepare for marching was applied by Hafiz to the necessity of relinquishing the pleasures of this world, and preparing for death:For me what room is there for pleasure in the bower of Beauty, when every moment the bell makes proclamation, 'Bind on your burdenst.""

And now, light bounding forth, a band
Of mountaineers, all smiles, advance,
Nymphs with their lovers, hand in hand,
Link'd in the Ariadne dance;"
And while, apart from that gay throng,
A minstrel youth, in varied song,
Tells of the loves, the joys, the ills
Of these wild children of the hills,

The rest by turns, or fierce or gay,
As war or sport inspires the lay,

Follow each change that wakes the strings
And act o'er all the lyrist sings:

1 The watchmen, in the camp of the caravans, go their rounds, crying one after another, "God is one, &c. &c."

2 "It was customary," says Irwin, "to light up fires on the mountains, within view of Cosseir, to give notice of the approach of the caravans that came from the Nile."

3-virginibus bacchata Laconis
Taygeta.Virg.

4 See, for an account of this dance, De Guy's Travels.

NO LIFE IS LIKE THE MOUNTAINEER'S.

No life is like the mountaineer's,

His home is near the sky,

Where, thron'd above this world, he hears

Its strife at distance die.

Or, should the sound of hostile drum
Proclaim below, "We come - we come,"
Each crag that towers in air

Gives answer "Come who dare!"
While, like bees, from dell and dingle,
The swarming warriors mingle,
And "Hurra!" their cry will be,
"Hurra, to victory!"

Then, when battle's hour is over,
See the happy mountain lover,

With the nymph, who 'll soon be bride,
Seated blushing by his side,

And each shadow of his lot
In her sunny smile forgot!

Oh! no life is like the mountaineer's,
His home is near the sky,

Where, thron'd above this world, he hears
Its strife at distance die.

Nor only thus through summer suns
His blithe existence cheerly runs
Ev'n winter, bleak and dim,
Brings joyous hours to him;
When, his rifle behind him flinging,
He watches the roe-buck springing,
And away, o'er the hills away
Re-echoes his glad “hurra.”

Then how blest, when night is closing,
By the kindled hearth reposing,
To his rebeck's drowsy song,
He beguiles the hour along;
Or, provok'd by merry glances,
To a brisker movement dances,
Till, tired at last, in slumber's chain,
He dreams the chase and dance again,
Dreams, dreams them o'er again.-

243

Asking each other what can be
The source of this sad minstrelsy?
Nor longer can they doubt, the song
Comes from some island-bark, which now
Courses the bright waves swift along,
And haply soon beneath the brow

Of the Saint's Rock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all, with hearts that sigh'd
'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence,
Flew to the rock, and saw from thence
A red-sail'd pinnace tow'rds them glide,
Whose shadow, as it swept the spray,
Scatter'd the moonlight's smiles away.
Soon as the mariners saw that throng
From the cliff gazing, young and old,
Sudden they slack'd their sail and song,
And, while their pinnace idly roll'd

On the light surge, these tidings told:
'Twas from an isle of mournful name,
From MISSOLONGHI, last they came,
Sad MISSOLONGHI, sorrowing yet
O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame
That e'er in life's young glory set!
And now were on their mournful way,
Wafting the news through HELLE's isles;
News that would cloud ev'n Freedom's ray,
And sadden Victory mid her smiles!

Their tale thus told, and heard, with pain,
Out spread the galliot's wings again,
And, as she sped her swift career,
Again that Hymn rose on the ear, -

"Thou art not dead thou art not dead!"
As oft 'twas sung, in ages flown,

Of him, the Athenian, who, to shed

A tyrant's blood, pour'd out his own.

The myrtle, round that falchion spread
Which struck the immortal blow,
Throughout all time, with leaves unshed,-
The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread,

• Φιλταθ'Αρμοδι, 'επω τεθνηκας.