Still, like dew in silence falling,
Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!
Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
So 'tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!
Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
Why? why?
UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.
Up, sailor boy, 'tis day!
The west wind blowing,
The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp,—in every note he seemed to say
'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.
Up boy, away,—
Who'd stay on land to-day?
The very flowers
Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!
Leave languid youths to pine
On silken pillows;
But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;"
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
"Yes, where you; please."
Up, boy, the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o'er thee,
The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, "Away!"
IN MYRTLE WREATHS.
BY ALCAEUS.
In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o'er ocean lying,
Thy home shall ever be.
In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'
And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story
Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant's death your glory,
Your meed, a nation free!