Song

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 tone
That all who heard him wisht his pain their own--
He is gone--he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by
And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die--
She is gone--she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say
Of 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 urn
Into the bright and silent deep--
And the young nymphs, on their return
From those romantic ruins, found
Their other playmates ranged around
The sacred Spring, prepared to tune
Their parting hymn, ere sunk the moon,
To that fair Fountain by whose stream
Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

Who has not read the tales that tell
Of old Eleusis' sacred Well,
Or heard what legend-songs recount
Of Syra and its holy Fount,
Gushing at once from the hard rock
Into the laps of living flowers--
Where village maidens loved to flock,
On summer-nights and like the Hours
Linked in harmonious dance and song,
Charmed the unconscious night along;
While holy pilgrims on their way
To Delos' isle stood looking on,
Enchanted with a scene so gay,
Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade
And its fair inmates now displayed.
As round the Fount in linked ring
They went in cadence slow and light
And thus to that enchanted Spring
Warbled their Farewell for the night:--
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