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 bringing Love'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 utter Love'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 last For the sweet summer season ) past, A few presiding nymphs whose care Watched over all invisibly,
As do those guardian sprites of air Whose watch we feel but cannot see, Had from the circle — scarcely missed, Ere they were sparkling there again —
Glided like fairies to assist Their handmaids on the moonlight plain, Where, hid by intercepting shade From 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 light Steering thro’ Heaven, as tho’ she bore
In safety thro’ that deep of night Spirits of earth, the good, the bright, To some remote immortal shore, Had half-way sped her glorious way,
When round reclined on hillocks green In groups beneath that tranquil ray, The Zeans at their feast were seen. Gay was the picture — every maid
Whom late the lighted scene displayed, Still in her fancy garb arrayed;— The Arabian pilgrim, smiling here Beside the nymph of India's sky;
While there the Mainiote mountaineer Whispered 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:—
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