And hardly left a trace upon its shores,
To tell us where it came. Then rest thee, stranger,
And think thou hearest in the ancient wood
A monitor, that warns thee of thy end
With a low earnest voice, a voice of kindness,
That, like a silent fountain. running over,
Refreshes where it flows, and, like its waters,
Gives life to the sere heart it passes by.
Aye, thou art for the grave; thy glances shine
Too brightly to shine long; another Spring
Shall deck her for men's eyes,-but not for thine,
Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening.
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf,
Nor the vexed ore a mineral of power,
And they who love thee, wait in anxious grief
Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour.
Glide softly to thy rest then; Death should come
Gently to one of gentle mould like thee,
As light winds wandering through groves of bloom
Detach the delicate blossom from the tree.
Close thy sweet eyes calmly, and without pain;
And we will trust in God, to see thee, yet again.
Earth holds no fairer, lovelier one than thou,
Maid of the laughing lip, and frolic eye.
Innocence sits upon thy open brow,
Like a pure spirit in its native sky.
If ever beauty stole the heart away,
Enchantress, it would fly to meet thy smile;
Moments would seem by thee a summer day,
And all around thee an Elysian isle.
Roses are nothing to the maiden blush
Sent o'er thy cheek's soft ivory, and night
Has nought so dazzling in its world of light,
As the dark rays that from thy lashes gush.
Love lurks amid thy silken curls, and lies
Like a keen archer in thy kindling eyes.
He lay upon his couch by night,
Locked fast in sleep; for he had been
Engaged the livelong day in fight
With warrior-bands of foreign men:
When, on the moon's declining beam,
There came the Spirit of a dream.
It breathed upon his face the spell,
Which shows the future and the past,
And bade him note fair Hellas well,
And see her age of glory past.
"And cast thine eyes, chief, west and east, And tell me, dreamer, what thou seest."
And Dion saw, and lo! the land,
The land of Greece was free no more;
But o'er it ruled a turbaned band,
Whose scimitars were red with gore.
And there a Spartan boy, who waits
A bondman at the conqueror's gates.
He saw her sons the proselytes
Of a pure creed-a faith divine;
None pay the "Unknown God" high rites,-
His temple holds a holier shrine.
'Tis changed; alas, at evening there
A Muezzim chants the Moslem prayer.
He saw a wretched peasant stand
Chained to his implements of toil;
And there are fetters on his hand,
And there are tears, but ne'er a smile.
And oft is upward cast his eye
In prayer to God, that he
He saw a girl with golden locks
And polished brow and azure eye;
Why roves she o'er the lonely rocks?
Why all the day long weep and sigh?
Alas, her loveliness has caught
A haram's lord, and she is bought.
And o'er the Morea, far and wide,
The ruthless sons of Islam stand
With every weapon, hell has tried
To work the downfall of a land.
And Dion thus in sorrow slept,
Then left his couch and sat and wept.
Again he sunk to sleep :-again
He dreamed. Upon that mount of Thrace, Which rises, as 'tis said of men,
Ten thousand feet above its base,
He stood, and from the height surveyed
The changes passing centuries made.
Is that lost Greece he sees below?
Where is the glittering minaret?
And where is he, the turbaned foe,
The Othman surely rules her yet?
No, rest thee, chief, the Moslem thrones
Cumber no land that Europe owns.
He sees upon a sunny slope
All festooned over with the vine,
A merry, laughing, peasant group,
Around a vase of China wine.
And much they talk of days gone past,
Ere Despotism breathed his last.
He sees a labouring man at work;
His children, babes with yellow hair,
Play by, and, fearless of the Turk,
Pursue a young bird fluttering there,
And he, that sire, with soft embrace
Of those dear babes, joins in the chace.
And, emblem of the peace that reigns
Throughout the clime, he sees a maid
Of angel form forsake the plains,
And wander to the mountain's shade,
All lonely, with her father's flocks ;-
For there's no Turk among these rocks.
What cloud is that, which, girt with wings,
Comes sweeping where proud Corinth smiles?
No shadowy cloud; that vessel brings
The dove from far Atlantic isles;
Lo! o'er her, with a dark blue blent,
There waves a starry firmament.
The warrior wakes; there is no cloud
Upon his heart; the morning sun
Shines through his tent, and fierce and loud
Come shouts, as when the battles 's won.
And little taught by yester night,
The Satrap arms again for fight.
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