Repels intrusion from his privacy,
And answer'd, with a calm but painful smile:
They are beside us now! Nay quake not thus,
I fear them not; yet they are terrible—
But they are past, resist them and they flee,
And all is peace again: yet have I groan'd
Beneath such visitation, till my faith
In Him I serve hath almost pass'd away."
With that she rose, and wrapt in silent thought,
Gazed through the portal long,-then paced awhile
The marble pavement, now from side to side
Tossing her restless arms, now clasping close
Her hands in supplication, lifting now
Her eloquent eyes to Heaven,-then sought again
Her lowly couch, and, by the nurse's side,
Resumed the wondrous tale. "Oh friend," she cried,
"And only mother now, yon silver moon
Has twenty times renew'd her course in Heaven,
Since, as my bosom o'er its girlish zone
With painful tightness rose, I bade thee change
Th' imprisoning cincture. Canst thou yet recall
Thy playful words of praise,-thy prophecies
Of one to loose ere long that golden clasp,
A royal bridegroom? Strange to me, thy words
Sunk in my soul, and busy fancy strove
To picture forth that unknown visitant,
His form and bearing. Musing thus, and lost
In troubled contemplation, o'er my soul
A heavy slumber fell: I sank not down ;
I saw, I heard, I moved; the spell was laid
Within me, and from forth my secret heart
A stranger's accents came: 'Oh! blessed maid!
Most beautiful, most honour'd! not for thee
Be mortal marriage, nor the feeble love
Of those whose beauty is a mortal dream,
Whose age a shadow. What is man, whose day,
In the poor circuit of a thousand years,
Reverts again to dust? Thee, maiden! thee
The gods have seen the never-dying stars
Gaze on thy loveliness, and thou shalt reign
A new Astarte. Bind thy flowing hair,
Brace on thy sandals, seek the myrtle grove
West of the city, and the cavern well,
Whose clear black waters from their silent spring
Ripple with ceaseless stir: thy lover there
Waits thee in secret, and thy soul shall learn
The raptures of a god! But cast away
That peevish bauble which thy mother gave,
Her hated talisman.' That word recall'd
My straggling senses, and her dying prayer
Pass'd through my soul like fire; the tempter fell
Abash'd before it, and a living voice
Of most true consolation o'er me came,
'Nor love nor fear them, Ada; love not them
Who hate thy mother's memory; fear not them
Who fear thy mother's God; for this she gave,
Prophetic of this hour, that graven gold,
Which bears the title of the Eternal One,
And binds thee to His service: guard it well,
And guard the faith it teaches; safer so
Than girt around by brazen walls, and gates
Of seven-fold cedar.' Since that hour, my heart
Hath kept its covenant, nor shrunk beneath
The spirits of evil; yet, not so repell'd,
They watch me in my walks, spy out my ways,
And still with nightly whispers vex my soul,
To seek the myrtle thicket. Bolder now,
They speak of duty-of a father's will,
Now first unkind—a father's kingly power,
Tremendous when opposed. My God, they say,
Bids me revere my parent: will He guard
A rebel daughter? Wiser to comply,
Ere force compels me to my happiness,
And to my lover yield that sacrifice
Which else my foe may seize. Oh God! great God!
Of whom I am, and whom I serve alone,
Be Thou my strength in weakness-Thou my guide,
And save me from this hour!" Thus, as she spake,
With naked feet and silent, in the cloud
Of a long mantle wrapt, as one who shuns
The busy eyes and babbling tongues of men,
A warrior enter'd; o'er his helm
The casque was drawn
TO HIERO OF SYRACUSE, VICTOR IN THE HORSE-RACE.
CAN earth, or fire, or liquid air,
With water's sacred stream compare?
Can aught that wealthy tyrants hold
Surpass the lordly blaze of gold?-
Or lives there one, whose restless eye
Would seek along the empty sky,
Beneath the sun's meridian ray,
A warmer star, a purer day?
O thou, my soul, whose choral song
Would tell of contests sharp and strong,
Extol not other lists above
The circus of Olympian Jove;
Whence, borne on many a tuneful tongue,
To Saturn's seed the anthem sung,
With harp, and flute, and trumpet's call,
Hath sped to Hiero's festival.—
Over sheep-clad Sicily
Who the righteous sceptre beareth, Every flower of Virtue's tree
Wove in various wreath he weareth.
But the bud of Poesy
Is the fairest flower of all;
Which the bards, with social glee,
Strew round Hiero's wealthy hall.
The harp on yonder pin suspended,
Seize it, boy, for Pisa's sake;
And that good steed's, whose thought will wake
A joy with anxious fondness blended ;
No sounding lash his sleek side rended :—
By Alpheus' brink, with feet of flame,
Self-driven to the goal he tended :
And earn'd the olive wreath of fame
For that dear lord, whose righteous name
The sons of Syracusa tell :
Who loves the generous courser well:
Belov'd himself by all who dwell
In Pelops' Lydian colony.-
-Of earth-embracing Neptune, he
The darling, when, in days of yore,
All lovely from the cauldron red
By Clotho's spell delivered,
The youth an ivory shoulder bore.—
-Well!-these are tales of mystery!-
And many a darkly-woven lie
With men will easy credence gain ;
While truth, calm truth, may speak in vain :
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