Scenes To Come, Walking For Ever In A Light That Flows From Regions Out Of Sight. But See By Gradual Dawn Descried A Mountain Realm-Rugged As E'Er Upraised To Heaven Its Summits Bare, Or Told To Earth With Frown Of Pride That Freedom'S Falcon Nest Was There, Too High For Hand Of Lord Or King To Hood Her Brow, Or Chain Her Wing. 'Tis Maina'S Land--Her Ancient Hills, The Abode Of Nymphs--Her Countless Rills And Torrents In Their Downward Dash Shining Like Silver Thro' The Shade Of The Sea-Pine And Flowering Ash-- All With A Truth So Fresh Portrayed As Wants But Touch Of Life To Be A World Of Warm Reality. And Now Light Bounding Forth A Band Of Mountaineers, All Smiles, Advance-- Nymphs With Their Lovers Hand In Hand Linked 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 What Thus The Lyrist Sings:-- Song. No Life Is Like The Mountaineer'S, His Home Is Near The Sky, Where Throned 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, Swift The Swarming Warriors Mingle, And Their Cry "Hurra!" 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,-- Every Shadow Of His Lot In Her Sunny Smile Forgot. Oh, No Life Is Like The Mountaineer'S. His Home Is Near The Sky, Where Throned Above This World He Hears Its Strife At Distance Die. Nor Only Thus Thro' Summer Suns His Blithe Existence Cheerly Runs-- Even 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 Provoked By Merry Glances To A Brisker Movement Dances, Till, Weary At Last, In Slumber'S Chain, He Dreams O'Er Chase And Dance Again, Dreams, Dreams Them O'Er Again. * * * * * As Slow That Minstrel At The Close Sunk While He Sung To Feigned Repose, Aptly Did They Whose Mimic Art Followed The Changes Of His Lay Portray The Lull, The Nod, The Start, Thro' Which As Faintly Died Away His Lute And Voice, The Minstrel Past, Till Voice And Lute Lay Husht At Last. But Now Far Other Song Came O'Er Their Startled Ears--Song That At First As Solemnly The Night-Wind Bore Across The Wave Its Mournful Burst, Seemed To The Fancy Like A Dirge Of Some Lone Spirit Of The Sea, Singing O'Er Helle'S Ancient Surge The Requiem Of Her Brave And Free. Sudden Amid Their Pastime Pause The Wondering Nymphs; And As The Sound Of That Strange Music Nearer Draws, With Mute Inquiring Eye Look Round, 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 Soon Perhaps Beneath The Brow Of The Saint'S Bock Will Shoot Its Prow. Instantly All With Hearts That Sighed 'Twixt Fear'S And Fancy'S Influence, Flew To The Rock And Saw From Thence A Red-Sailed Pinnace Towards Them Glide, Whose Shadow As It Swept The Spray Scattered The Moonlight'S Smiles Away. Soon As The Mariners Saw That Throng From The Cliff Gazing, Young And Old, Sudden They Slacked Their Sail And Song, And While Their Pinnace Idly Rolled 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 Thro' Helle'S Isles;-- News That Would Cloud Even 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 Poured Out His Own. Song. Thou Art Not Dead--Thou Art Not Dead! No, Dearest Harmodius, No. Thy Soul To Realms Above Us Fled Tho' Like A Star It Dwells O'Er Head Still Lights This World Below. Thou Art Not Dead--Thou Art Not Dead! No, Dearest Harmodius, No. Thro' Isles Of Light Where Heroes Tread And Flowers Ethereal Blow, Thy God-Like Spirit Now Is Led, Thy Lip With Life Ambrosial Fed Forgets All Taste Of Woe. Thou Art Not Dead--Thou Art Not Dead! No, Dearest Harmodius, No. 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-- Round Freedom'S Shrine Shall Grow. Thou Art Not Dead--Thou Art Not Dead! No, Dearest Harmodius, No. Where Hearts Like Thine Have Broke Or Bled, Tho' Quenched The Vital Glow, Their Memory Lights A Flame Instead, Which Even From Out The Narrow Bed Of Death Its Beams Shall Throw. Thou Art Not Dead--Thou Art Not Dead! No, Dearest Harmodius, No. Thy Name, By Myriads Sung And Said, From Age To Age Shall Go, Long As The Oak And Ivy Wed, As Bees Shall Haunt Hymettus' Head, Or Helle'S Waters Flow. Thou Art Not Dead--Thou Art Not Dead! No, Dearest Harmodius, No. * * * * * 'Mong Those Who Lingered Listening There,-- Listening With Ear And Eye As Long As Breath Of Night Could Towards Them Bear A Murmur Of That Mournful Song,-- A Few There Were In Whom The Lay Had Called Up Feelings Far Too Sad To Pass With The Brief Strain Away, Or Turn At Once To Theme More Glad; And Who In Mood Untuned To Meet The Light Laugh Of The Happie Train, Wandered To Seek Some Moonlight Seat Where They Might Rest, In Converse Sweet, Till Vanisht Smiles Should Come Again. And Seldom E'Er Hath Noon Of Night To Sadness Lent More Soothing Light. On One Side In The Dark Blue Sky Lonely And Radiant Was The Eye Of Jove Himself, While On The Other 'Mong Tiny Stars That Round Her Gleamed, The Young Moon Like The Roman Mother Among Her Living "Jewels" Beamed. Touched By The Lovely Scenes Around, A Pensive Maid--One Who, Tho' Young, Had Known What 'Twas To See Unwound The Ties By Which Her Heart Had Clung-- Wakened Her Soft Tamboura'S Sound, And To Its Faint Accords Thus Sung:-- Song. Calm As Beneath Its Mother'S Eyes In Sleep The Smiling Infant Lies, So Watched By All The Stars Of Night Yon Landscape Sleeps In Light. And While The Night-Breeze Dies Away, Like Relics Of Some Faded Strain, Loved Voices, Lost For Many A Day, Seem Whispering Round Again. Oh Youth! Oh Love! Ye Dreams That Shed Such Glory Once--Where Are Ye Fled? Pure Ray Of Light That Down The Sky Art Pointing Like An Angel'S Wand, As If To Guide To Realms That Lie In That Bright Sea Beyond: Who Knows But In Some Brighter Deep Than Even That Tranquil, Moonlit Main, Some Land May Lie Where Those Who Weep Shall Wake To Smile Again! With Cheeks That Had Regained Their Power And Play Of Smiles,--And Each Bright Eye Like Violets After Morning'S Shower The Brighter For The Tears Gone By, Back To The Scene Such Smiles Should Grace These Wandering Nymphs Their Path Retrace, And Reach The Spot With Rapture New Just As The Veils Asunder Flew And A Fresh Vision Burst To View. There By Her Own Bright Attic Flood, The Blue-Eyed Queen Of Wisdom Stood;-- Not As She Haunts The Sage'S Dreams, With Brow Unveiled, Divine, Severe; But Softened As On Bards She Beams When Fresh From Poesy'S High Sphere A Music Not Her Own She Brings, And Thro' The Veil Which Fancy Flings O'Er Her Stern Features Gently Sings. But Who Is He--That Urchin Nigh, With Quiver On The Rose-Trees Hung, Who Seems Just Dropt From Yonder Sky, And Stands To Watch That Maid With Eye So Full Of Thought For One So Young?-- That Child--But, Silence! Lend Thine Ear, And Thus In Song The Tale Thou'Lt Hear:-- Song. As Love One Summer Eve Was Straying, Who Should He See At That Soft Hour But Young Minerva Gravely Playing Her Flute Within An Olive Bower. I Need Not Say, 'Tis Love'S Opinion That Grave Or Merry, Good Or Ill, The Sex All Bow To His Dominion, As Woman Will Be Woman Still. Tho' Seldom Yet The Boy Hath Given To Learned Dames His Smiles Or Sighs, So Handsome Pallas Looked That Even Love Quite Forgot The Maid Was Wise. Besides, A Youth Of His Discerning Knew Well That By A Shady Rill At Sunset Hour Whate'Er Her Learning A Woman Will Be Woman Still. Her Flute He Praised In Terms Extatic,-- Wishing It Dumb, Nor Cared How Soon.-- For Wisdom'S Notes, Howe'Er Chromatic, To Love Seem Always Out Of Tune. But Long As He Found Face To Flatter, The Nymph Found Breath To Shake And Thrill; As, Weak Or Wise--It Doesn'T Matter-- Woman At Heart Is Woman Still. Love Changed His Plan, With Warmth Exclaiming, "How Rosy Was Her Lips' Soft Dye!" And Much That Flute The Flatterer Blaming, For Twisting Lips So Sweet Awry. The Nymph Looked Down, Beheld Her Features Reflected In The Passing Rill, And Started, Shocked--For, Ah, Ye Creatures! Even When Divine You'Re Women Still. Quick From The Lips It Made So Odious. That Graceless Flute The Goddess Took And While Yet Filled With Breath Melodious, Flung It Into The Glassy Brook; Where As Its Vocal Life Was Fleeting Adown The Current, Faint And Shrill, 'Twas Heard In Plaintive Tone Repeating, "Woman, Alas, Vain Woman Still!" * * * * * An Interval Of Dark Repose-- Such As The Summer Lightning Knows, Twixt Flash And Flash, As Still More Bright The Quick Revealment Comes And Goes, Opening Each Time The Veils Of Night, To Show Within A World Of Light-- Such Pause, So Brief, Now Past Between This Last Gay Vision And The Scene Which Now Its Depth Of Light Disclosed. A Bower It Seemed, An Indian Bower, Within Whose Shade A Nymph Reposed, Sleeping Away Noon'S Sunny Hour-- Lovely As She, The Sprite, Who Weaves Her Mansion Of Sweet Durva Leaves, And There, As Indian Legends Say, Dreams The Long Summer Hours Away. And Mark How Charmed This Sleeper Seems With Some Hid Fancy--She, Too, Dreams! Oh For A Wizard'S Art To Tell The Wonders That Now Bless Her Sight! 'Tis Done--A Truer, Holier Spell Than E'Er From Wizard'S Lip Yet Fell. Thus Brings Her Vision All To Light:-- Song. "Who Comes So Gracefully "Gliding Along "While The Blue Rivulet "Sleeps To Her Song; "Song Richly Vying "With The Faint Sighing "Which Swans In Dying "Sweetly Prolong?" So Sung The Shepherd-Boy By The Stream'S Side, Watching That Fairy-Boat Down The Flood Glide, Like A Bird Winging, Thro' The Waves Bringing That Syren, Singing To The Husht Tide. "Stay," Said The Shepherd-Boy, "Fairy-Boat, Stay, "Linger, Sweet Minstrelsy, "Linger A Day." But Vain His Pleading, Past Him, Unheeding, Song And Boat, Speeding, Glided Away. So To Our Youthful Eyes Joy And Hope Shone; So While We Gazed On Them Fast They Flew On;-- Like Flowers Declining Even In The Twining, One Moment Shining. And The Next Gone! * * * * * Soon As The Imagined Dream Went By, Uprose The Nymph, With Anxious Eye Turned To The Clouds As Tho' Some Boon She Waited From That Sun-Bright Dome, And Marvelled That It Came Not Soon As Her Young Thoughts Would Have It Come. But Joy Is In Her Glance!--The Wing Of A White Bird Is Seen Above; And Oh, If Round His Neck He Bring The Long-Wished Tidings From Her Love, Not Half So Precious In Her Eyes Even That High-Omened Bird[26] Would Be. Who Dooms The Brow O'Er Which He Flies To Wear A Crown Of Royalty. She Had Herself Last Evening Sent A Winged Messenger Whose Flight Thro' The Clear, Roseate Element, She Watched Till Lessening Out Of Sight Far To The Golden West It Went, Wafting To Him, Her Distant Love, A Missive In That Language Wrought Which Flowers Can Speak When Aptly Wove, Each Hue A Word, Each Leaf A Thought. And Now--Oh Speed Of Pinion, Known To Love'S Light Messengers Alone I-- Ere Yet Another Evening Takes Its Farewell Of The Golden Lakes, She Sees Another Envoy Fly, With The Wished Answer, Thro' The Sky. Song. Welcome Sweet Bird, Thro' The Sunny Air Winging, Swift Hast Thou Come O'Er The Far-Shining Sea, Like Seba'S Dove On Thy Snowy Neck Bringing Love'S Written Vows From My Lover To Me. Oh, In Thy Absence What Hours Did I Number!-- Saying Oft, "Idle Bird, How Could He Rest?" But Thou Art Come At Last, Take Now Thy Slumber, And Lull Thee In Dreams Of All Thou Lov'St Best. Yet Dost Thou Droop--Even Now While I Utter Love'S Happy Welcome, Thy Pulse Dies Away; Cheer Thee, My Bird--Were It Life'S Ebbing Flutter. This Fondling Bosom Should Woo It To Stay, But No--Thou'Rt Dying--Thy Last Task Is Over-- Farewell, Sweet Martyr To Love And To Me! The Smiles Thou Hast Wakened By News From My Lover, Will Now All Be Turned Into Weeping For Thee. * * * * * While Thus This Scene Of Song (Their Last For The Sweet Summer Season) Past, A Few Presiding Nymphs Whose Care Watched Over All Invisibly, As Do Those Guardian Sprites Of Air Whose Watch We Feel But Cannot See, Had From The Circle--Scarcely Missed, Ere They Were Sparkling There Again-- Glided Like Fairies To Assist Their Handmaids On The Moonlight Plain, Where, Hid By Intercepting Shade From The Stray Glance Of Curious Eyes, A Feast Of Fruits And Wines Was Laid-- Soon To Shine Out, A Glad Surprise! And Now The Moon, Her Ark Of Light Steering Thro' Heaven, As Tho' She Bore In Safety Thro' That Deep Of Night Spirits Of Earth, The Good, The Bright, To Some Remote Immortal Shore, Had Half-Way Sped Her Glorious Way, When Round Reclined On Hillocks Green In Groups Beneath That Tranquil Ray, The Zeans At Their Feast Were Seen. Gay Was The Picture--Every Maid Whom Late The Lighted Scene Displayed, Still In Her Fancy Garb Arrayed;-- The Arabian Pilgrim, Smiling Here Beside The Nymph Of India'S Sky; While There The Mainiote Mountaineer Whispered In Young Minerva'S Ear, And Urchin Love Stood Laughing By. Meantime The Elders Round The Board, By Mirth And Wit Themselves Made Young, High Cups Of Juice Zacynthian Poured, And While The Flask Went Round Thus Sung:-- Song. Up With The Sparkling Brimmer, Up To The Crystal Rim; Let Not A Moonbeam Glimmer 'Twixt The Flood And Brim. When Hath The World Set Eyes On Aught To Match This Light, Which O'Er Our Cup'S Horizon Dawns In Bumpers Bright? Truth In A Deep Well Lieth-- So The Wise Aver; But Truth The Fact Denieth-- Water Suits Not Her. No, Her Abode'S In Brimmers, Like This Mighty Cup-- Waiting Till We, Good Swimmers, Dive To Bring Her Up. * * * * * Thus Circled Round The Song Of Glee, And All Was Tuneful Mirth The While, Save On The Cheeks Of Some Whose Smile As Fixt They Gaze Upon The Sea, Turns Into Paleness Suddenly! What See They There? A Bright Blue Light That Like A Meteor Gliding O'Er The Distant Wave Grows On The Sight, As Tho' 'Twere Winged To Zea'S Shore. To Some, 'Mong Those Who Came To Gaze, It Seemed The Night-Light Far Away Of Some Lone Fisher By The Blaze Of Pine Torch Luring On His Prey; While Others, As 'Twixt Awe And Mirth They Breathed The Blest Panaya'S[27] Name, Vowed That Such Light Was Not Of Earth But Of That Drear, Ill-Omen'D Flame Which Mariners See On Sail Or Mast When Death Is Coming In The Blast. While Marvelling Thus They Stood, A Maid Who Sate Apart With Downcast Eye, Not Yet Had Like The Rest Surveyed That Coming Light Which Now Was Nigh, Soon As It Met Her Sight, With Cry Of Pain-Like Joy, "'Tis He! 'Tis He!" Loud She Exclaimed, And Hurrying By The Assembled Throng, Rushed Towards The Sea. At Burst So Wild, Alarmed, Amazed, All Stood Like Statues Mute And Gazed Into Each Other'S Eyes To Seek What Meant Such Mood In Maid So Meek? Till Now, The Tale Was Known To Few, But Now From Lip To Lip It Flew:-- A Youth, The Flower Of All The Band, Who Late Had Left This Sunny Shore, When Last He Kist That Maiden'S Hand, Lingering To Kiss It O'Er And O'Er. By His Sad Brow Too Plainly Told The Ill-Omened Thought Which Crost Him Then, That Once Those Hands Should Lose Their Hold, They Ne'Er Would Meet On Earth Again! In Vain His Mistress Sad As He, But With A Heart From Self As Free As Generous Woman'S Only Is, Veiled Her Own Fears To Banish His:-- With Frank Rebuke But Still More Vain, Did A Rough Warrior Who Stood By Call To His Mind This Martial Strain, His Favorite Once, Ere Beauty'S Eye Had Taught His Soldier-Heart To Sigh:-- Song. March! Nor Heed Those Arms That Hold Thee, Tho' So Fondly Close They Come; Closer Still Will They Enfold Thee When Thou Bring'St Fresh Laurels Home. Dost Thou Dote On Woman'S Brow? Dost Thou Live But In Her Breath? March!--One Hour Of Victory Now Wins Thee Woman'S Smile Till Death. Oh What Bliss When War Is Over Beauty'S Long-Missed Smile To Meet. And When Wreaths Our Temples Cover Lay Them Shining At Her Feet. Who Would Not That Hour To Reach Breathe Out Life'S Expiring Sigh,-- Proud As Waves That On The Beach Lay Their War-Crests Down And Die. There! I See Thy Soul Is Burning-- She Herself Who Clasps Thee So Paints, Even Now, Thy Glad Returning, And While Clasping Bids Thee Go. One Deep Sigh To Passion Given, One Last Glowing Tear And Then-- March!--Nor Rest Thy Sword Till Heaven Brings Thee To Those Arms Again. * * * * * Even Then Ere Loath Their Hands Could Part A Promise The Youth Gave Which Bore Some Balm Unto The Maiden'S Heart, That, Soon As The Fierce Fight Was O'Er, To Home He'D Speed, If Safe And Free-- Nay, Even If Dying, Still Would Come, So The Blest Word Of "Victory!" Might Be The Last He'D Breathe At Home. "By Day," He Cried, "Thou'Lt Know My Bark; "But Should I Come Thro' Midnight Dark, "A Blue Light On The Prow Shall Tell "That Greece Hath Won And All Is Well!" Fondly The Maiden Every Night, Had Stolen To Seek That Promised Light; Nor Long Her Eyes Had Now Been Turned From Watching When The Signal Burned. Signal Of Joy--For Her, For All-- Fleetly The Boat Now Nears The Land, While Voices From The Shore-Edge Call For Tidings Of The Long-Wished Band. Oh The Blest Hour When Those Who'Ve Been Thro' Peril'S Paths By Land Or Sea Locked In Our Arms Again Are Seen Smiling In Glad Security; When Heart To Heart We Fondly Strain, Questioning Quickly O'Er And O'Er-- Then Hold Them Off To Gaze Affain And Ask, Tho' Answered Oft Before, If They Indeed Are Ours Once More? Such Is The Scene So Full Of Joy Which Welcomes Now This Warrior-Boy, As Fathers, Sisters, Friends All Run Bounding To Meet Him--All But One Who, Slowest On His Neck To Fall, Is Yet The Happiest Of Them All. And Now Behold Him Circled Round With Beaming Faces At That Board, While Cups With Laurel Foliage Crowned, Are To The Coming Warriors Poured-- Coming, As He, Their Herald, Told, With Blades From Victory Scarce Yet Cold, With Hearts Untouched By Moslem Steel And Wounds That Home'S Sweet Breath Will Heal. "Ere Morn," Said He,--And While He Spoke Turned To The East, Where Clear And Pale The Star Of Dawn Already Broke-- "We'll Greet On Yonder Wave Their Sail!" Then Wherefore Part? All, All Agree To Wait Them Here Beneath This Bower; And Thus, While Even Amidst Their Glee, Each Eye Is Turned To Watch The Sea, With Song They Cheer The Anxious Hour. Song. "'Tis The Vine! 'Tis The Vine!" Said The Cup-Loving Boy As He Saw It Spring Bright From The Earth, And Called The Young Genii Of Wit, Love, And Joy, To Witness And Hallow Its Birth. The Fruit Was Full Grown, Like A Ruby It Flamed Till The Sunbeam That Kist It Looked Pale; "'Tis The Vine! 'Tis The Vine!" Every Spirit Exclaimed "Hail, Hail To The Wine-Tree, All Hail!" First, Fleet As A Bird To The Summons Wit Flew, While A Light On The Vine-Leaves There Broke In Flashes So Quick And So Brilliant All Knew T'Was The Light From His Lips As He Spoke. "Bright Tree! Let Thy Nectar But Cheer Me," He Cried, "And The Fount Of Wit Never Can Fail:" "'Tis The Vine! 'Tis The Vine!" Hills And Valleys Reply, "Hail, Hail To The Wine-Tree, All Hail!" Next Love As He Leaned O'Er The Plant To Admire Each Tendril And Cluster It Wore, From His Rosy Mouth Sent Such A Breath Of Desire, As Made The Tree Tremble All O'Er. Oh! Never Did Flower Of The Earth, Sea, Or Sky, Such A Soul-Giving Odor Inhale: "'Tis The Vine! 'Tis The Vine!" All Re-Echo The Cry, "Hail, Hail To The Wine-Tree, All Hail!" Last, Joy, Without Whom Even Love And Wit Die, Came To Crown The Bright Hour With His Ray; And Scarce Had That Mirth-Waking Tree Met His Eye, When A Laugh Spoke What Joy Could Not Say;-- A Laugh Of The Heart Which Was Echoed Around Till Like Music It Swelled On The Gale: "T Is The Vine! 'Tis The Vine!" Laughing Myriads Resound, "Hail, Hail To The Wine-Tree, All Hail!"