All other secrets of their fate
From darkness would the Muse redeem; Unheard-of horrors to relate,
Which fancy scarce may dare to dream. Thus much we only know-they died; All else oblivion veils,
And charnels of the waters wide, That tell no babbling tales.
For them were wishes, longings, fears, The sleepless night and ceaseless prayer, Hope gleaming, rainbow-like, through tears, And doubt that darkened to despair! Suns, seasons, as they roll away, No light upon the lost can shed, Their tale a secret till the day When seas give up their dead.
WHERE are now the dreaming flowers, Which of old were wont to lie, Looking upwards at the hours,
In the pale blue sky? Where's the once red regal rose? And the lily, love-enchanted?
And the pensée which arose
Like a thought, earth-planted?
Some are withered-some are dead- Others now have no perfume; This doth hang its sullen head, That hath lost its bloom. Passions, such as nourish strife
In our blood, and quick decay, Hang upon the flower's life Till it fades away.
ON SEEING THE ENDYMION OF ALBANO.
The very music of his name has gone into my being. KEATS.
I NEVER Would have drawn Endymion thus- He should have knelt on earth, a shepherd boy, With vivid eye, and dark descending hair, Thrown into light and beauty, by the beam Of her he worshiped-
His eye should have been fixed, but not in sleep; Nor should the lid thrown e'en a partial shadow: Like a young, wild, untaught idolater,
There let him kneel; with curved and parted lip As if he spoke to her who answered not- With that unquiet brightness which betrays A heart with its aspirings overwrought- Hope in despair; and joyfulness and sorrow; And death, with the disturbances of life: All riving, glowing every lineament,
With hands uplifted, pressed above his brow, And clustering ringlets resting in their palms; Whilst his light raiment, silvered by the Moon, Floats with the unfelt wind-and let his flock Roam idle down th' unguarded precipice, And never more be folded.-
Oh! who would close Endymion's eyes in sleep, Or send down Cherubs to the Shepherd boy? Or leave a healthful bloom upon that cheek With vigils worn? or let the Queen of night Withdraw her ray of loveliness from him? Thou-thou Albano! thou canst pencil well, But false are thine imaginings-and thou Canst shadow beauty-and be painter all; But poet never.
How beautiful upon the wave The vessel sails, that comes to save! Fitting it was that first she shone Before the wandering eyes of one, So beautiful as thou.
See how before the wind she goes, Scattering the waves like melting snows! Her course with glory fills
The sea for many a league!-Descending, She stoopeth now into the vale,
Now, as more freshly blows the gale,
She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills. Oh! whither is she tending?
She holds in sight yon sheltered bay! As for her crew, how blessed are they! See! how she veers around!
Back whirl the waves with louder sound; And now her prow points to the land: For the Ship, at her glad lord's command, Doth well her helm obey.
They cast their eyes around the isles:
But what a change is there!
For ever fled that lonely smile
That lay on earth and air,
That made its haunts so still and holy,
Almost for bliss too melancholy
For life too wildly fair.
Gone gone is all its loneliness, And with it much of loveliness. Into each deep glen's dark recess,
The day-shine pours like rain, So strong and sudden is the light Reflected from that wonder bright, Now tilting o'er the main.
Soon as the thundering cannon spoke, The voice of the evening gun
The spell of the enchantment broke, Like dew beneath the sun.
Soon shall they hear the unwonted cheers Of these delighted mariners,
And the loud sounds of the oar, As bending back away they pull, With measured pause, most beautiful, Approaching to the shore.
For her yards are bare of man and sail, Nor moves the giant to the gale;
But, on the ocean's breast,
With storm-proof cables, stretching far, There lies the stately Ship of War; And glad is she of rest.
TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS AT ATHENS.
THOU art not silent!-oracles are thine Which the wind utters, and the spirit hears,— Lingering, 'mid ruined fane and broken shrine, O'er many a tale and trace of other years! Bright as an ark, o'er all the flood of tears That wraps thy cradle land-thine earthly love- Where hours of hope 'mid centuries of fears, Have gleamed, lightnings through the gloom above,-
Stands, roofless to the sky, thy house, Olympian Jove!
TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS.
Thy columned aisles with whispers of the past Are vocal-and, along thine ivied walls, While Elian echoes murmur in the blast, And wild flowers hang, like victor-coronals, In vain the turbaned tyrant rears his halls, And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters,— Now, even now, the beam of promise falls
Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters, And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters!
Thou art not silent !—when the southern fair, Ionia's moon*, looks down upon thy breast, Smiling, as pity smiles above despair, Soft as young beauty soothing age to rest, Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest; And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours, Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest, Her lay-half hope, half sorrow-from the flowers, And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers!
And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept From him who waked Aurora every morn, And sad as those he sung her till she slept ! A thousand, and a thousand years have swept O'er thee, who wert a mortal from thy springA wreck in youth+!-nor vainly hast thou kept Thy lyre! Olympia's soul is on the wing, And a new Ipithus has waked beneath its string!
* Ionia was the name anciently given to Attica, and sometimes to the whole of Achaia.
+ The Temple of Jupiter Olympius, at Athens, was commenced by Pisistratus, on a scale of great magnificence, but never com pleted.
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