In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers.
The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."—Vol. vi. p. 174.
"The sky is bright—the breeze is fair,"And the mainsail flowing, full and free—"Our farewell word is woman's prayer,"And the hope before us—Liberty!"Farewell, farewell."To Greece we give our shining blades,"And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!
"The moon is in the heavens above,"And the wind is on the foaming sea—"Thus shines the star of woman's love"On the glorious strife of Liberty!"Farewell, farewell."To Greece we give our shining blades,"And our hearts to you, young Zean Maids!"
Thus sung they from the bark, that nowTurned to the sea its gallant prow,Bearing within its hearts as brave,As e'er sought Freedom o'er the wave;And leaving on that islet's shore,Where still the farewell beacons burn,Friends that shall many a day look o'erThe long, dim sea for their return.
Virgin of Heaven! speed their way—Oh, speed their way,—the chosen flower,Of Zea's youth, the hope and stayOf parents in their wintry hour,The love of maidens and the prideOf the young, happy, blushing bride,Whose nuptial wreath has not yet died—All, all are in that precious bark,Which now, alas! no more is seen—Tho' every eye still turns to markThe moonlight spot where it had been.
Vainly you look, ye maidens, sires,And mothers, your beloved are gone!—Now may you quench those signal fires,Whose light they long looked back uponFrom their dark deck—watching the flameAs fast it faded from their view,With thoughts, that, but for manly shame,Had made them droop and weep like you.Home to your chambers! home, and prayFor the bright coming of that day,When, blest by heaven, the Cross shall sweepThe Crescent from the Aegean deep,And your brave warriors, hastening back,Will bring such glories in their track,As shall, for many an age to come,Shed light around their name and home.
There is a Fount on Zea's isle,Round which, in soft luxuriance, smileAll the sweet flowers, of every kind,On which the sun of Greece looks down,Pleased as a lover on the crownHis mistress for her brow hath twined,When he beholds each floweret there,Himself had wisht her most to wear;Here bloomed the laurel-rose,[1] whose wreathHangs radiant round the Cypriot shines,And here those bramble-flowers, that breatheTheir odor into Zante's wines:—The splendid woodbine that, as eve,To grace their floral diadems,The lovely maids of Patmos weave:—[2]And that fair plant whose tangled stemsShine like a Nereid's hair,[3] when spread,Dishevelled, o'er her azure bed:—All these bright children of the clime,(Each at its own most genial time,The summer, or the year's sweet prime,)Like beautiful earth-stars, adornThe Valley where that Fount is born;While round, to grace its cradle greenGroups of Velani oaks are seenTowering on every verdant height—Tall, shadowy, in the evening light,Like Genii set to watch the birthOf some enchanted child of earth—Fair oaks that over Zea's vales,Stand with their leafy pride unfurled;While Commerce from her thousand sailsScatters their fruit throughout the world![4]
'Twas here—as soon as prayer and sleep(Those truest friends to all who weep)Had lightened every heart; and madeEven sorrow wear a softer shade—'Twas here, in this secluded spot,Amid whose breathings calm and sweetGrief might be soothed if not forgot,The Zean nymphs resolved to meetEach evening now, by the same lightThat saw their farewell tears that night:And try if sound of lute and song,If wandering mid the moonlight flowersIn various talk, could charm alongWith lighter step, the lingering hours,Till tidings of that Bark should come,Or Victory waft their warriors home!
When first they met—the wonted smileOf greeting having gleamed awhile—'Twould touch even Moslem heart to seeThe sadness that came suddenlyO'er their young brows, when they looked roundUpon that bright, enchanted ground;And thought how many a time with thoseWho now were gone to the rude warsThey there had met at evening's close,And danced till morn outshone the stars!
But seldom long doth hang the eclipseOf sorrow o'er such youthful breasts—The breath from her own blushing lips,That on the maiden's mirror rests,Not swifter, lighter from the glass,Than sadness from her brow doth pass.
Soon did they now, as round the WellThey sat, beneath the rising moon—And some with voice of awe would tellOf midnight fays and nymphs who dwellIn holy founts—while some would timeTheir idle lutes that now had lainFor days without a single strain;—And others, from the rest apart,With laugh that told the lightened heart,Sat whispering in each other's earSecrets that all in turn would hear;—Soon did they find this thoughtless playSo swiftly steal their griefs away,That many a nymph tho' pleased the while,Reproached her own forgetful smile,And sighed to think shecouldbe gay.
Among these maidens there was oneWho to Leucadia[5] late had been—Had stood beneath the evening sunOn its white towering cliffs and seenThe very spot where Sappho sungHer swan-like music, ere she sprung(Still holding, in that fearful leap,By her loved lyre,) into the deep,And dying quenched the fatal fire,At once, of both her heart and lyre.
Mutely they listened all—and wellDid the young travelled maiden tellOf the dread height to which that steepBeetles above the eddying deep—[6]Of the lone sea-birds, wheeling roundThe dizzy edge with mournful sound—And of those scented lilies foundStill blooming on that fearful place—As if called up by Love to graceThe immortal spot o'er which the lastBright footsteps of his martyr past!
While fresh to every listener's thoughtThese legends of Leucadia broughtAll that of Sappho's hapless flameIs kept alive, still watcht by Fame—The maiden, tuning her soft lute,While all the rest stood round her, mute,Thus sketched the languishment of soul,That o'er the tender Lesbian stole;And in a voice whose thrilling toneFancy might deem the Lesbian's own,One of those fervid fragments gave,Which still,—like sparkles of Greek Fire,Undying, even beneath the wave,—Burn on thro' Time and ne'er expire.
As o'er her loom the Lesbian MaidIn love-sick languor hung her head,Unknowing where her fingers strayed,She weeping turned away, and said,"Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—"I cannot weave, as once I wove—"So wildered is my heart and brain"With thinking of that youth I love!"
Again the web she tried to trace,But tears fell o'er each tangled thread;While looking in her mother's face,Who watchful o'er her leaned, she said,"Oh, my sweet Mother—'tis in vain—"I cannot weave, as once I wove—"So wildered is my heart and brain"With thinking of that youth I love!"
* * * * *
A silence followed this sweet air,As each in tender musing stood,Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer,Of Sappho and that fearful flood:While some who ne'er till now had knownHow much their hearts resembled hers,Felt as they made her griefs their own,Thattheytoo were Love's worshippers.
At length a murmur, all but mute,So faint it was, came from the luteOf a young melancholy maid,Whose fingers, all uncertain playedFrom chord to chord, as if in chaseOf some lost melody, some strainOf other times, whose faded traceShe sought among those chords again.Slowly the half-forgotten theme(Tho' born in feelings ne'er forgot)Came to her memory—as a beamFalls broken o'er some shaded spot;—And while her lute's sad symphonyFilled up each sighing pause between;And Love himself might weep to seeWhat ruin comes where he hath been—As withered still the grass is foundWhere fays have danced their merry round—Thus simply to the listening throngShe breathed her melancholy song:—
Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day,Lonely and wearily life wears away.Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night—No rest in darkness, no joy in light!Naught left but Memory whose dreary treadSounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead—Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!
* * * * *
Of many a stanza, this aloneHad 'scaped oblivion—like the oneStray fragment of a wreck which thrownWith the lost vessel's name ashoreTells who they were that live no more.When thus the heart is in a veinOf tender thought, the simplest strainCan touch it with peculiar power—As when the air is warm, the scentOf the most wild and rustic flowerCan fill the whole rich element—And in such moods the homeliest toneThat's linked with feelings, once our own—With friends or joy gone by—will beWorth choirs of loftiest harmony!
But some there were among the groupOf damsels there too light of heartTo let their spirits longer droop,Even under music's melting art;And one upspringing with a boundFrom a low bank of flowers, looked roundWith eyes that tho' so full of lightHad still a trembling tear within;And, while her fingers in swift flightFlew o'er a fairy mandolin,Thus sung the song her lover lateHad sung to her—the eve beforeThat joyous night, when as of yoreAll Zea met to celebrateThe feast of May on the sea-shore.
When the Balaika[7]Is heard o'er the sea,I'll dance the RomaikaBy moonlight with thee.If waves then advancingShould steal on our play,Thy white feet in dancingShall chase them away.[8]When the BalaikaIs heard o'er the sea,Thou'lt dance the RomaikaMy own love, with me.
Then at the closingOf each merry lay,How sweet 'tis, reposingBeneath the night ray!Or if decliningThe moon leave the skies,We'll talk by the shiningOf each other's eyes.
Oh then how featlyThe dance we'll renew,Treading so fleetlyIts light mazes thro':[9]Till stars, looking o'er usFrom heaven's high bowers,Would change their bright chorusFor one dance of ours!When the BalaikaIs heard o'er the sea,Thou'lt dance the Romaika,My own love, with me.
* * * * *
How changingly for ever veersThe heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears!Even as in April the light vaneNow points to sunshine, now to rain.Instant this lively lay dispelledThe shadow from each blooming brow,And Dancing, joyous Dancing, heldFull empire o'er each fancy now.
But say—whatshall the measure be?"Shall we the old Romaika tread,"(Some eager asked) "as anciently"'Twas by the maids of Delos led,"When slow at first, then circling fast,"As the gay spirits rose—at last,"With hand in hand like links enlocked,"Thro' the light air they seemed to flit"In labyrinthine maze, that mocked"The dazzled eye that followed it?"Some called aloud "the Fountain Dance!"—While one young, dark-eyed Amazon,Whose step was air-like and whose glanceFlashed, like a sabre in the sun,Sportively said, "Shame on these soft"And languid strains we hear so oft."Daughters of Freedom! have not we"Learned from our lovers and our sires"The Dance of Greece, while Greece was free—"That Dance, where neither flutes nor lyres,"But sword and shield clash on the ear"A music tyrants quake to hear?"Heroines of Zea, arm with me"And dance the dance of Victory!"
Thus saying, she, with playful grace,Loosed the wide hat, that o'er her face(From Anatolia came the maid)Hung shadowing each sunny charm;And with a fair young armorer's aid,Fixing it on her rounded arm,A mimic shield with pride displayed;Then, springing towards a grove that spreadIts canopy of foliage near,Plucked off a lance-like twig, and said,"To arms, to arms!" while o'er her headShe waved the light branch, as a spear.
Promptly the laughing maidens allObeyed their Chief's heroic call;—Round the shield-arm of each was tiedHat, turban, shawl, as chance might be;The grove, their verdant armory,Falchion and lance[10] alike supplied;And as their glossy locks, let free,Fell down their shoulders carelessly,You might have dreamed you saw a throngOf youthful Thyads, by the beamOf a May moon, bounding alongPeneus' silver-eddied stream!
And now they stept, with measured tread,Martially o'er the shining field;Now to the mimic combat led(A heroine at each squadron's head),Struck lance to lance and sword to shield:While still, thro' every varying feat,Their voices heard in contrast sweetWith some of deep but softened soundFrom lips of aged sires around,Who smiling watched their children's play—Thus sung the ancient Pyrrhic lay:—
"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"
Such were the sounds to which the warrior boyDanced in those happy days when Greece was free;When Sparta's youth, even in the hour of joy,Thus trained their steps to war and victory."Raise the buckler—poise the lance—"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"Such was the Spartan warriors' dance."Grasp the falchion—gird the shield—"Attack—defend—do all but yield."
Thus did thy sons, oh Greece, one glorious night,Dance by a moon like this, till o'er the seaThat morning dawned by whose immortal lightThey nobly died for thee and liberty![11]"Raise the buckler—poise the lance—"Now here—now there—retreat—advance!"Such was the Spartan heroes' dance.
* * * * *
Scarce had they closed this martial layWhen, flinging their light spears away,The combatants, in broken ranks.All breathless from the war-field fly;And down upon the velvet banksAnd flowery slopes exhausted lie,Like rosy huntresses of Thrace,Resting at sunset from the chase.
"Fond girls!" an aged Zean said—One who himself had fought and bled,And now with feelings half delight,Half sadness, watched their mimic fight—"Fond maids! who thus with War can jest—"Like Love in Mar's helmet drest,"When, in his childish innocence,"Pleased with the shade that helmet flings,"He thinks not of the blood that thence"Is dropping o'er his snowy wings."Ay—true it is, young patriot maids,"If Honor's arm still won the fray,"If luck but shone on righteous blades,"War were a game for gods to play!"But, no, alas!—hear one, who well"Hath tracked the fortunes of the brave—"Hearme, in mournful ditty, tell"What glory waits the patriot's grave."
As by the shore, at break of day,A vanquished chief expiring lay.Upon the sands, with broken sword,He traced his farewell to the Free;And, there, the last unfinished wordHe dying wrote was "Liberty!"
At night a Sea-bird shrieked the knellOf him who thus for Freedom fell;The words he wrote, ere evening came,Were covered by the sounding sea;—So pass away the cause and nameOf him who dies for Liberty!
* * * * *
That tribute of subdued applauseA charmed but timid audience pays,That murmur which a minstrel drawsFrom hearts that feel but fear to praise,Followed this song, and left a pauseOf silence after it, that hungLike a fixt spell on every tongue.
At length a low and tremulous soundWas heard from midst a group that roundA bashful maiden stood to hideHer blushes while the lute she tried—Like roses gathering round to veilThe song of some young nightingale,Whose trembling notes steal out betweenThe clustered leaves, herself unseen.And while that voice in tones that moreThro' feeling than thro' weakness erred,Came with a stronger sweetness o'erThe attentive ear, this strain was heard:—
I saw from yonder silent cave,[12]Two Fountains running side by side;The one was Memory's limpid wave,The other cold Oblivion's tide."Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless mood,As deep I drank of Lethe's stream,"Be all my sorrows in this flood"Forgotten like a vanisht dream!"
But who could bear that gloomy blankWhere joy was lost as well as pain?Quickly of Memory's fount I drank.And brought the past all back again;And said, "Oh Love! whate'er my lot,"Still let this soul to thee be true—"Rather than have one bliss forgot,"Be all my pains remembered too!"
* * * * *
The group that stood around to shadeThe blushes of that bashful maid,Had by degrees as came the layMore strongly forth retired away,Like a fair shell whose valves divideTo show the fairer pearl inside:For such she was—a creature, brightAnd delicate as those day-flowers,Which while they last make up in lightAnd sweetness what they want in hours.
So rich upon the ear had grownHer voice's melody—its toneGathering new courage as it foundAn echo in each bosom round—That, ere the nymph with downcast eyeStill on the chords, her lute laid by,"Another song," all lips exclaimed,And each some matchless favorite named;while blushing as her fingers ranO'er the sweet chords she thus began:—
Oh, Memory, how coldlyThou paintest joy gone by:Like rainbows, thy picturesBut mournfully shine and die.Or if some tints thou keepestThat former days recall,As o'er each line thou weepest,Thy tears efface them all.
But, Memory, too trulyThou paintest grief that's past;Joy's colors are fleeting,But those of Sorrow last.And, while thou bringst before usDark pictures of past ill,Life's evening closing o'er usBut makes them darker still.
* * * * *
So went the moonlight hours along,In this sweet glade; and so with songAnd witching sounds—not such as they,The cymbalists of Ossa, played,To chase the moon's eclipse away,[13]But soft and holy—did each maidLighten her heart's eclipse awhile,And win back Sorrow to a smile.
Not far from this secluded place,On the sea-shore a ruin stood;—A relic of the extinguisht race,Who once o'er that foamy flood,When fair Ioulis[14] by the lightOf golden sunset on the sightOf mariners who sailed that sea,Rose like a city of chrysoliteCalled from the wave by witchery.This ruin—now by barbarous handsDebased into a motley shed,Where the once splendid column standsInverted on its leafy head—Formed, as they tell in times of oldThe dwelling of that bard whose layCould melt to tears the stern and cold,And sadden mid their mirth the gay—Simonides,[15] whose fame thro' yearsAnd ages past still bright appears—Like Hesperus, a star of tears!
'Twas hither now—to catch a viewOf the white waters as they playedSilently in the light—a fewOf the more restless damsels strayed;And some would linger mid the scentOf hanging foliage that perfumedThe ruined walls; while others wentCulling whatever floweret bloomed
In the lone leafy space between,Where gilded chambers once had been;Or, turning sadly to the sea,Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblestTo some brave champion of the Free—Thinking, alas, how cold might beAt that still hour his place of rest!
Meanwhile there came a sound of songFrom the dark ruins—a faint strain,As if some echo that amongThose minstrel halls had slumbered longWere murmuring into life again.
But, no—the nymphs knew well the tone—A maiden of their train, who lovedLike the night-bird to sing alone.Had deep into those ruins roved,And there, all other thoughts forgot,Was warbling o'er, in lone delight,A lay that, on that very spot,Her lover sung one moonlight night:—
Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours,The voice of Song in these neglected bowers?They are gone—all gone!
The youth who told his pain in such sweet toneThat all who heard him wisht his pain their own—He is gone—he is gone!
And she who while he sung sat listening byAnd thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die—She is gone—she too is gone!
'Tis thus in future hours some bard will sayOf her who hears and him who sings this lay—They are gone—they both are gone!
* * * * *
The moon was now, from heaven's steep,Bending to dip her silvery urnInto the bright and silent deep—And the young nymphs, on their returnFrom those romantic ruins, foundTheir other playmates ranged aroundThe sacred Spring, prepared to tuneTheir parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon,To that fair Fountain by whose streamTheir hearts had formed so many a dream.
Who has not read the tales that tellOf old Eleusis' sacred Well,Or heard what legend-songs recountOf Syra and its holy Fount,[17]Gushing at once from the hard rockInto the laps of living flowers—Where village maidens loved to flock,On summer-nights and like the HoursLinked in harmonious dance and song,Charmed the unconscious night along;While holy pilgrims on their wayTo Delos' isle stood looking on,Enchanted with a scene so gay,Nor sought their boats till morning shone.
Such was the scene this lovely gladeAnd its fair inmates now displayed.As round the Fount in linked ringThey went in cadence slow and lightAnd thus to that enchanted SpringWarbled their Farewell for the night:—
Here, while the moonlight dimFalls on that mossy brim,Sing we our Fountain Hymn,Maidens of Zea!Nothing but Music's strain,When Lovers part in pain,Soothes till they meet again,Oh, Maids of Zea!
Bright Fount so clear and coldRound which the nymphs of oldStood with their locks of gold,Fountain of Zea!Not even Castaly,Famed tho' its streamlet be,Murmurs or shines like thee,Oh, Fount of Zea!
Thou, while our hymn we sing,Thy silver voice shalt bring,Answering, answering,Sweet Fount of Zea!For of all rills that runSparkling by moon or sunThou art the fairest one,Bright Fount of Zea!
Now, by those stars that glanceOver heaven's still expanseWeave we our mirthful dance,Daughters of Zea!Such as in former daysDanced they by Dian's raysWhere the Eurotas strays,Oh, Maids of Zea!
But when to merry feetHearts with no echo beat,Say, can the dance be sweet?Maidens of Zea!No, naught but Music's strain,When lovers part in pain,Soothes till they meet again,Oh, Maids of Zea!
When evening shades are fallingO'er Ocean's sunny sleep,To pilgrims' hearts recallingTheir home beyond the deep;When rest o'er all descendingThe shores with gladness smile,And lutes their echoes blendingAre heard from isle to isle,Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,We pray, we pray, to thee!
The noon-day tempest over,Now Ocean toils no more,And wings of halcyons hoverWhere all was strife before.Oh thus may life in closingIts short tempestuous dayBeneath heaven's smile reposingShine all its storms away:Thus, Mary, Star of the Sea,We pray, we pray, to thee!
On Helle's sea the light grew dimAs the last sounds of that sweet hymnFloated along its azure tide—Floated in light as if the layHad mixt with sunset's fading rayAnd light and song together died.So soft thro' evening's air had breathedThat choir of youthful voices wreathedIn many-linked harmony,That boats then hurrying o'er the seaPaused when they reached this fairy shore,And lingered till the strain was o'er.
Of those young maids who've met to fleetIn song and dance this evening's hours,Far happier now the bosoms beatThan when they last adorned these bowers;For tidings of glad sound had come,At break of day from the far isles—Tidings like breath of life to some—That Zea's sons would soon wing home,Crowded with the light of Victory's smilesTo meet that brightest of all meedsThat wait on high, heroic deeds.When gentle eyes that scarce for tearsCould trace the warrior's parting track,Shall like a misty morn that clearsWhen the long-absent sun appearsShine out all bliss to hail him back.
How fickle still the youthful breast!—More fond of change than a young moon,No joy so new was e'er possestBut Youth would leave for newer soon.These Zean nymphs tho' bright the spotWhere first they held their evening playAs ever fell to fairy's lotTo wanton o'er by midnight's ray,Had now exchanged that sheltered sceneFor a wide glade beside the sea—A lawn whose soft expanse of greenTurned to the west sun smilinglyAs tho' in conscious beauty brightIt joyed to give him light for light.
And ne'er did evening more sereneLook down from heaven on lovelier scene.Calm lay the flood around while fleetO'er the blue shining elementLight barks as if with fairy feetThat stirred not the husht waters went;Some, that ere rosy eve fell o'erThe blushing wave, with mainsail free,Had put forth from the Attic shore,Or the near Isle of Ebony;—Some, Hydriot barks that deep in cavesBeneath Colonna's pillared cliffs,Had all day lurked and o'er the wavesNow shot their long and dart-like skiffs.Woe to the craft however fleetThese sea-hawks in their course shall meet,Laden with juice of Lesbian vines,Or rich from Naxos' emery mines;For not more sure, when owlets fleeO'er the dark crags of Pendelee,Doth the night-falcon mark his prey,Or pounce on it more fleet than they.
And what a moon now lights the gladeWhere these young island nymphs are met!Full-orbed yet pure as if no shadeHad touched its virgin lustre yet;And freshly bright as if just madeBy Love's own hands of new-born lightStolen from his mother's star tonight.
On a bold rock that o'er the floodJutted from that soft glade there stoodA Chapel, fronting towards the sea,—Built in some by-gone century,—Where nightly as the seaman's markWhen waves rose high or clouds were dark,A lamp bequeathed by some kind SaintShed o'er the wave its glimmer faint.Waking in way-worn men a sighAnd prayer to heaven as they went by.'Twas there, around that rock-built shrineA group of maidens and their siresHad stood to watch the day's decline,And as the light fell o'er their lyresSung to the Queen-Star of the SeaThat soft and holy melody.
But lighter thoughts and lighter songNow woo the coming hours along.For mark, where smooth the herbage lies,Yon gay pavilion curtained deepWith silken folds thro' which bright eyesFrom time to time are seen to peep;While twinkling lights that to and froBeneath those veils like meteors go,Tell of some spells at work and keepYoung fancies chained in mute suspense,Watching what next may shine from thence,Nor long the pause ere hands unseenThat mystic curtain backward drew,And all that late but shone betweenIn half-caught gleams now burst to view.
A picture 'twas of the early daysOf glorious Greece ere yet those raysOf rich, immortal Mind were hersThat made mankind her worshippers;While yet unsung her landscapes shoneWith glory lent by heaven alone;Nor temples crowned her nameless hills,Nor Muse immortalized her rills;Nor aught but the mute poesyOf sun and stars and shining seaIllumed that land of bards to be.While prescient of the gifted raceThat yet would realm so blest adorn,Nature took pains to deck the placeWhere glorious Art was to be born.
Such was the scene that mimic stageOf Athens and her hills portrayedAthens in her first, youthful age,Ere yet the simple violet braid,[18]Which then adorned her had shone downThe glory of earth's loftiest crown.While yet undreamed, her seeds of ArtLay sleeping in the marble mine—Sleeping till Genius bade them startTo all but life in shapes divine;Till deified the quarry shoneAnd all Olympus stood in stone!
There in the foreground of that scene,On a soft bank of living greenSate a young nymph with her lap fullOf the newly gathered flowers, o'er whichShe graceful leaned intent to cullAll that was there of hue most rich,To form a wreath such as the eyeOf her young lover who stood by,With pallet mingled fresh might chooseTo fix by Painting's rainbow hues.
The wreath was formed; the maiden raisedHer speaking eyes to his, while he—Ohnotupon the flowers now gazed,But on that bright look's witchery.While, quick as if but then the thoughtLike light had reached his soul, he caughtHis pencil up and warm and trueAs life itself that love-look drew:And, as his raptured task went on,And forth each kindling feature shone,Sweet voices thro' the moonlight airFrom lips as moonlight fresh and pureThus hailed the bright dream passing there,And sung the Birth of Portraiture.[19]
As once a Grecian maiden woveHer garland mid the summer bowers,There stood a youth with eyes of loveTo watch her while she wreathed the flowers.The youth was skilled in Painting's art,But ne'er had studied woman's brow,Nor knew what magic hues the heartCan shed o'er Nature's charms till now.
Blest be Love to whom we oweAll that's fair and bright below.
His hand had pictured many a roseAnd sketched the rays that light the brook;But what were these or what were thoseTo woman's blush, to woman's look?"Oh, if such magic power there be,"This, this," he cried, "is all my prayer,"To paint that living light I see"And fix the soul that sparkles there."
His prayer as soon as breathed was heard;His pallet touched by Love grew warm,And Painting saw her hues transferredFrom lifeless flowers to woman's form.Still as from tint to tint he stole,The fair design shone out the more,And there was now a life, a soul,Where only colors glowed before.
Then first carnations learned to speakAnd lilies into life were brought;While mantling on the maiden's cheekYoung roses kindled into thought.Then hyacinths their darkest dyesUpon the locks of Beauty threw;And violets transformed to eyesInshrined a soul within their blue.
Blest be Love to whom we owe,All that's fair and bright below.Song was cold and Painting dimTill Song and Painting learned from him.
* * * * *
Soon as the scene had closed, a cheerOf gentle voices old and youngRose from the groups that stood to hearThis tale of yore so aptly sung;And while some nymphs in haste to tellThe workers of that fairy spellHow crowned with praise their task had beenStole in behind the curtained scene,The rest in happy converse strayed—Talking that ancient love-tale o'er—Some to the groves that skirt the glade,Some to the chapel by the shore,To look what lights were on the sea.And think of the absent silently.
But soon that summons known so wellThro' bower and hall in Eastern lands,Whose sound more sure than gong or bellLovers and slaves alike commands,—The clapping of young female hands,Calls back the groups from rock and fieldTo see some new-formed scene revealed;—And fleet and eager down the slopesOf the green glades like antelopesWhen in their thirst they hear the soundOf distant rills, the light nymphs bound.
Far different now the scene—a wasteOf Libyan sands, by moonlight's ray;An ancient well, whereon were tracedThe warning words, for such as strayUnarmed there, "Drink and away!"[20]While near it from the night-ray screened,And like his bells in husht repose,A camel slept—young as if weanedWhen last the star Canopus rose.[21]
Such was the back-ground's silent scene;—While nearer lay fast slumbering tooIn a rude tent with brow sereneA youth whose cheeks of wayworn hueAnd pilgrim-bonnet told the taleThat he had been to Mecca's Vale:Haply in pleasant dreams, even nowThinking the long wished hour is comeWhen o'er the well-known porch at homeHis hand shall hang the aloe bough—Trophy of his accomplished vow.[22]
But brief his dream—for now the callOf the camp-chiefs from rear to van,"Bind on your burdens,"[23] wakes up allThe widely slumbering caravan;And thus meanwhile to greet the earOf the young pilgrim as he wakes,The song of one who lingering nearHad watched his slumber, cheerly breaks.
Up and march! the timbrel's soundWakes the slumbering camp around;Fleet thy hour of rest hath gone,Armed sleeper, up, and on!Long and weary is our wayO'er the burning sands to-day;But to pilgrim's homeward feetEven the desert's path is sweet.
When we lie at dead of night,Looking up to heaven's light,Hearing but the watchmans toneFaintly chanting "God is one,"[24]Oh what thoughts then o'er us comeOf our distant village home,Where that chant when evening setsSounds from all the minarets.
Cheer thee!—soon shall signal lights,Kindling o'er the Red Sea heights,Kindling quick from man to man,Hail our coming caravan:[25]Think what bliss that hour will be!Looks of home again to see,And our names again to hearMurmured out by voices dear.
* * * * *
So past the desert dream away,Fleeting as his who heard this lay,Nor long the pause between, nor movedThe spell-bound audience from that spot;While still as usual Fancy rovedOn to the joy that yet was not;—Fancy who hath no present home,But builds her bower in scenes to come,Walking for ever in a lightThat flows from regions out of sight.
But see by gradual dawn descriedA mountain realm-rugged as e'erUpraised to heaven its summits bare,Or told to earth with frown of prideThat Freedom's falcon nest was there,Too high for hand of lord or kingTo hood her brow, or chain her wing.
'Tis Maina's land—her ancient hills,The abode of nymphs—her countless rillsAnd torrents in their downward dashShining like silver thro' the shadeOf the sea-pine and flowering ash—All with a truth so fresh portrayedAs wants but touch of life to beA world of warm reality.
And now light bounding forth a bandOf mountaineers, all smiles, advance—Nymphs with their lovers hand in handLinked in the Ariadne dance;And while, apart from that gay throng,A minstrel youth in varied songTells of the loves, the joys, the illsOf these wild children of the hills,The rest by turns or fierce or gayAs war or sport inspires the layFollow each change that wakes the stringsAnd act what thus the lyrist sings:—
No life is like the mountaineer's,His home is near the sky,Where throned above this world he hearsIts strife at distance die,Or should the sound of hostile drumProclaim below, "We come—we come,"Each crag that towers in airGives 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 overSee the happy mountain loverWith the nymph who'll soon be brideSeated blushing by his side,—Every shadow of his lotIn her sunny smile forgot.Oh, no life is like the mountaineer's.His home is near the sky,Where throned above this world he hearsIts strife at distance die.Nor only thus thro' summer sunsHis blithe existence cheerly runs—Even winter bleak and dimBrings joyous hours to him;When his rifle behind him flingingHe watches the roe-buck springing,And away, o'er the hills awayRe-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 glancesTo 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 closeSunk while he sung to feigned repose,Aptly did they whose mimic artFollowed the changes of his layPortray the lull, the nod, the start,Thro' which as faintly died awayHis lute and voice, the minstrel past,Till voice and lute lay husht at last.
But now far other song came o'erTheir startled ears—song that at firstAs solemnly the night-wind boreAcross the wave its mournful burst,Seemed to the fancy like a dirgeOf some lone Spirit of the Sea,Singing o'er Helle's ancient surgeThe requiem of her Brave and Free.
Sudden amid their pastime pauseThe wondering nymphs; and as the soundOf that strange music nearer draws,With mute inquiring eye look round,Asking each other what can beThe source of this sad minstrelsy?Nor longer can they doubt, the songComes from some island-bark which nowCourses the bright waves swift alongAnd soon perhaps beneath the browOf 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 thenceA red-sailed pinnace towards them glide,Whose shadow as it swept the sprayScattered the moonlight's smiles away.Soon as the mariners saw that throngFrom the cliff gazing, young and old,Sudden they slacked their sail and song,And while their pinnace idly rolledOn the light surge, these tidings told:—
'Twas from an isle of mournful name,From Missolonghi, last they came—Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yetO'er him, the noblest Star of FameThat 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 rayAnd 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 careerAgain that Hymn rose on the ear—"Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!"As oft 'twas sung in ages flownOf him, the Athenian, who to shedA tyrant's blood poured out his own.
Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!No, dearest Harmodius, no.Thy soul to realms above us fledTho' like a star it dwells o'er headStill lights this world below.Thou artnotdead—thou art not dead!No, dearest Harmodius, no.
Thro' isles of light where heroes treadAnd flowers ethereal blow,Thy god-like Spirit now is led,Thy lip with life ambrosial fedForgets all taste of woe.Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!No, dearest Harmodius, no.
The myrtle round that falchion spreadWhich 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 bedOf 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 longAs breath of night could towards them bearA murmur of that mournful song,—A few there were in whom the layHad called up feelings far too sadTo pass with the brief strain away,Or turn at once to theme more glad;And who in mood untuned to meetThe light laugh of the happie train,Wandered to seek some moonlight seatWhere they might rest, in converse sweet,Till vanisht smiles should come again.
And seldom e'er hath noon of nightTo sadness lent more soothing light.On one side in the dark blue skyLonely and radiant was the eyeOf Jove himself, while on the other'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed,The young moon like the Roman motherAmong her living "jewels" beamed.
Touched by the lovely scenes around,A pensive maid—one who, tho' young,Had known what 'twas to see unwoundThe ties by which her heart had clung—Wakened her soft tamboura's sound,And to its faint accords thus sung:—
Calm as beneath its mother's eyesIn sleep the smiling infant lies,So watched by all the stars of nightYon 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 shedSuch glory once—where are ye fled?
Pure ray of light that down the skyArt pointing like an angel's wand,As if to guide to realms that lieIn that bright sea beyond:Who knows but in some brighter deepThan even that tranquil, moonlit main,Some land may lie where those who weepShall wake to smile again!With cheeks that had regained their powerAnd play of smiles,—and each bright eyeLike violets after morning's showerThe brighter for the tears gone by,Back to the scene such smiles should graceThese wandering nymphs their path retrace,And reach the spot with rapture newJust as the veils asunder flewAnd 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 beamsWhen fresh from Poesy's high sphereA music not her own she brings,And thro' the veil which Fancy flingsO'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 eyeSo full of thought for one so young?—That child—but, silence! lend thine ear,And thus in song the tale thou'lt hear:—
As Love one summer eve was straying,Who should he see at that soft hourBut young Minerva gravely playingHer flute within an olive bower.I need not say, 'tis Love's opinionThat 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 givenTo learned dames his smiles or sighs,So handsome Pallas looked that evenLove quite forgot the maid was wise.Besides, a youth of his discerningKnew well that by a shady rillAt sunset hour whate'er her learningA 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 featuresReflected 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 tookAnd while yet filled with breath melodious,Flung it into the glassy brook;Where as its vocal life was fleetingAdown 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 brightThe 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 betweenThis last gay vision and the sceneWhich 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 weavesHer mansion of sweet Durva leaves,And there, as Indian legends say,Dreams the long summer hours away.And mark how charmed this sleeper seemsWith some hid fancy—she, too, dreams!Oh for a wizard's art to tellThe wonders that now bless her sight!'Tis done—a truer, holier spellThan e'er from wizard's lip yet fell.Thus brings her vision all to light:—
"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-boyBy the stream's side,Watching that fairy-boatDown the flood glide,Like a bird winging,Thro' the waves bringingThat Syren, singingTo 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 eyesJoy and hope shone;So while we gazed on themFast they flew on;—Like flowers decliningEven in the twining,One moment shining.And the next gone!
* * * * *
Soon as the imagined dream went by,Uprose the nymph, with anxious eyeTurned to the clouds as tho' some boonShe waited from that sun-bright dome,And marvelled that it came not soonAs her young thoughts would have it come.
But joy is in her glance!—the wingOf a white bird is seen above;And oh, if round his neck he bringThe long-wished tidings from her love,Not half so precious in her eyesEven that high-omened bird[26] would be.Who dooms the brow o'er which he fliesTo wear a crown of royalty.
She had herself last evening sentA winged messenger whose flightThro' the clear, roseate element,She watched till lessening out of sightFar to the golden West it went,Wafting to him, her distant love,A missive in that language wroughtWhich flowers can speak when aptly wove,Each hue a word, each leaf a thought.
And now—oh speed of pinion, knownTo Love's light messengers alone I—Ere yet another evening takesIts farewell of the golden lakes,She sees another envoy fly,With the wished answer, thro' the sky.
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 bringingLove'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 utterLove'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 lastFor the sweet summer season) past,A few presiding nymphs whose careWatched over all invisibly,As do those guardian sprites of airWhose watch we feel but cannot see,Had from the circle—scarcely missed,Ere they were sparkling there again—Glided like fairies to assistTheir handmaids on the moonlight plain,Where, hid by intercepting shadeFrom 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 lightSteering thro' Heaven, as tho' she boreIn safety thro' that deep of nightSpirits of earth, the good, the bright,To some remote immortal shore,Had half-way sped her glorious way,When round reclined on hillocks greenIn groups beneath that tranquil ray,The Zeans at their feast were seen.Gay was the picture—every maidWhom late the lighted scene displayed,Still in her fancy garb arrayed;—The Arabian pilgrim, smiling hereBeside the nymph of India's sky;While there the Mainiote mountaineerWhispered 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:—
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 onAught to match this light,Which o'er our cup's horizonDawns 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 smileAs fixt they gaze upon the sea,Turns into paleness suddenly!What see they there? a bright blue lightThat like a meteor gliding o'erThe 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 awayOf some lone fisher by the blazeOf pine torch luring on his prey;While others, as 'twixt awe and mirthThey breathed the blest Panaya's[27] name,Vowed that such light was not of earthBut of that drear, ill-omen'd flameWhich mariners see on sail or mastWhen Death is coming in the blast.While marvelling thus they stood, a maidWho sate apart with downcast eye,Not yet had like the rest surveyedThat coming light which now was nigh,Soon as it met her sight, with cryOf pain-like joy, "'Tis he! 'tis he!"Loud she exclaimed, and hurrying byThe assembled throng, rushed towards the sea.At burst so wild, alarmed, amazed,All stood like statues mute and gazedInto each other's eyes to seekWhat 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 toldThe 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 freeAs 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 byCall to his mind this martial strain,His favorite once, ere Beauty's eyeHad taught his soldier-heart to sigh:—
March! nor heed those arms that hold thee,Tho' so fondly close they come;Closer still will they enfold theeWhen 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 nowWins thee woman's smile till death.
Oh what bliss when war is overBeauty's long-missed smile to meet.And when wreaths our temples coverLay them shining at her feet.Who would not that hour to reachBreathe out life's expiring sigh,—Proud as waves that on the beachLay their war-crests down and die.
There! I see thy soul is burning—She herself who clasps thee soPaints, 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 HeavenBrings thee to those arms again.
* * * * *
Even then ere loath their hands could partA promise the youth gave which boreSome 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 turnedFrom 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 callFor tidings of the long-wished band.
Oh the blest hour when those who've beenThro' peril's paths by land or seaLocked in our arms again are seenSmiling in glad security;When heart to heart we fondly strain,Questioning quickly o'er and o'er—Then hold them off to gaze affainAnd ask, tho' answered oft before,If theyindeedare ours once more?
Such is the scene so full of joyWhich welcomes now this warrior-boy,As fathers, sisters, friends all runBounding to meet him—all but oneWho, slowest on his neck to fall,Is yet the happiest of them all.
And now behold him circled roundWith 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 steelAnd wounds that home's sweet breath will heal.
"Ere morn," said he,—and while he spokeTurned to the east, where clear and paleThe star of dawn already broke—"We'll greet on yonder wave their sail!"Then wherefore part? all, all agreeTo 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.
"'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the cup-loving boyAs 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 flamedTill 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 brokeIn flashes so quick and so brilliant all knewT'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 admireEach 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 aroundTill 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!"
[1] "Nerium Oleander. In Cyprus it retains its ancient name, Rhododaphne, and the Cypriots adorn their churches with the flowers on feast-days."—Journal of Dr. Sibthorpe, Walpole's, Turkey.
[2]Lonicera caprifolium, used by the girls of Patmos for garlands.
[3]Cuscuta europoea. "From the twisting and twining of the stems, it is compared by the Greeks to the dishevelled hair of the Nereids."—Walpole's Turkey.
[4] "The produce of the island in these acorns alone amounts annually to fifteen thousand quintals."—Clarke's Travels.
[5] Now Santa Maura—the island, from whose cliffs Sappho leaped into the sea.
[6] "The precipice, which is fearfully dizzy, is about one hundred and fourteen feet from the water, which is of a profound depth, as appears from the dark blue color and the eddy that plays round the pointed and projecting rocks."—Goodisson's Ionian Isles.
[7] This word is defrauded here, I suspect, of a syllable; Dr. Clarke, if I recollect right, makes it "Balalaika."
[8] "I saw above thirty parties engaged in dancing the Romaika upon the sand; in some of these groups, the girl who led them chased the retreating wave."—Douglas on the Modern Greeks.
[9] "In dancing the Romaika [says Mr. Douglas] they begin in slow and solemn step till they have gained the time, but by degrees the air becomes more sprightly; the conductress of the dance sometimes setting to her partners, sometimes darting before the rest, and leading them through the most rapid revolutions: sometimes crossing under the hands, which are held up to let her pass, and giving as much liveliness and intricacy as she can to the figures, into which she conducts her companions, while their business is to follow her in all her movements, without breaking the chain, or losing the measure,"
[10] The sword was the weapon chiefly used in this dance.
[11] It is said that Leonidas and his companions employed themselves, on the eve of the battle, in music and the gymnastic exercises of their country.
[12] "This morning we paid our visit to the Cave of Trophonius, and the Fountains of Memory and Oblivion, just upon the water of Hercyna, which flows through stupendous rocks."—Williams's Travels in Greece.
[13] This superstitious custom of the Thessalians exists also, as Pietro dello Valle tells us, among the Persians.
[14] An ancient city of Zea, the walls of which were of marble. Its remains (says Clarke) "extend from the shore, quite into a valley watered by the streams of a fountain, whence Ioulis received its name."
[15] Zea was the birthplace of this poet, whose verses are by Catullus called "tears."
[16] These "Songs of the Well," as they were called among the ancients, still exist in Greece.De Guystells us that he has seen "the young women in Prince's Island, assembled in the evening at a public well, suddenly strike up a dance, while others sung in concert to them."
[17] "The inhabitants of Syra, both ancient and modern, may be considered as the worshippers of water. The old fountain, at which the nymphs of the island assembled in the earliest ages, exists in its original state; the same rendezvous as it was formerly, whether of love and gallantry, or of gossiping and tale-telling. It is near to the town, and the most limpid water gushes continually from the solid rock. It is regarded by the inhabitants with a degree of religious veneration; and they p reserve a tradition, that the pilgrims of old time, in their way to Delos, resorted hither for purification."—Clarke.