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'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:—