FIRST LOVE.
BY J. C. McCABE.
There is a thought, still beautiful, though years have roll'd along,
Which stirs the wave of memory, and wakes her wonted song—
Which rustles 'mid the heart's dead flowers like midnight's mournful breeze,
And dove-like spreads its soothing wing o'er passion's stormy seas.
No crime can dim its purity—no cloud obscure its ray;
But like the temple's altar light, its steady beams will play,
All sweetly hovering o'er the soul, like spirit from above——
O, 'tis the thought—the holy thought—of boyhood's early love!
When years have wrinkled o'er his brow, and furrows traced his cheek,
And his once glad voice is trembling now in lapses faint and weak;
How thoughtful is his glance, as on his slowly rolling tears,
There floats along that fairy form he loved in boyhood's years.
And then—O then, that heart (like harp hung up in ruined hall,
Untouch'd, save when the night-winds sweep along the mould'ring wall,)
It gives a wild tone from its chords, the pilgrim lone to tell,
Though desolate it still can yield to melody's sweet spell.
Oh, cast him on the stormy sea, when Death rides on the surge,
And sea-nymphs chant around his head a melancholy dirge,
While struggling with the giant waves, from their embrace to flee,
That lov'd one's voice is whispering of halls beneath the sea.
And as far down he swiftly sinks, and billows o'er him foam,
A thousand phantasies appear, and o'er his vision come;
But one will keep its vigil there, though storm and tempest sweep,
Unmoved, though burst upon by all the billows of the deep.
Go place him in the battle's front, where death and carnage meet,
And his country's flag unsullied is his warrior-winding sheet;
When from his heart is oozing fast the darkly purple tide,
And victory's shout a moment fills his dying eye with pride—
The wild and lingering look he casts, as heaven's own arch of blue,
Like the vision of a summer dream, fades slowly from his view,
Speaks—clearly speaks—of vision'd joys—of home beheld once more—
Of the image of the one-loved form in sorrow bending o'er.
EROSTRATUS.
I.
Early in the afternoon of an autumn day, in the first year of the hundred and fifth Olympiad, the keeper of the light-house which then marked the entrance of the harbor of Ephesus, announced the approach of a vessel, which, from its size and proportions, he decided to be from Corinth or Athens. Crowded, as the port of Diana's favorite city at that time was, with sails from every maritime town in the Mediterranean, where commerce was cultivated, the arrival of a vessel was an event of hourly occurrence, yet the news of the approach of this spread rapidly through the city. The magistrate left the bench, the merchant forsook his warehouse, and the mechanic dropped his tools. All hastened to the quay. It was expected that this vessel brought the news of the results of the Olympic games. With such rapidity the lusty rowers plyed their oars, that the most experienced eye could scarcely decide whether the approaching bark carried three or four banks. The helms-man was singing the prize verses of the games, in which all the oars-men joined at intervals as a chorus. Soon she neared sufficiently for the pilots, who stood upon an eminence, to decide that she was the Sphynx of Corinth. She presently came within speaking distance, and the name of the victor in the poetic contest was demanded. “Leonidas of Mægara,” was the reply. Other questions succeeded until the Sphynx was moored in the harbor, and then followed, amidst the embraces of friends and relatives, more minute inquiries and particular replies touching the events of the games, which then excited an interest in every land where the Greek tongue was spoken, of which the moderns can form but little conception. Preparations for the customary sacrifices to Diana of the Ephesians, Neptune, and the Winds, in grateful return for the prosperous voyage, were quickly made.
II.