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:—