Thy columned aisles with whispers of the past
Are vocal,—and, along thine ivied walls,
While Elian echoes murmur on the blast,
And wild-flowers hang, like victor-coronals,
In vain the turbaned tyrant rears his halls,
And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters;
Now, even now, the beam of promise falls

Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters, And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters!

Thou art not silent!--when the southern fair-
Ionia's moon-looks down upon thy breast,'
Smiling, as pity smiles above despair,

Soft as young beauty soothing age to rest,-
Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest,

And she-the minstrel of the moonlight hours Breathes-like some lone one, sighing to be blest,— Her lay-half hope, half sorrow,-from the flowers, And hoots the prophet owl, amid his tangled bowers!

16

TEMPLE OF UPITER OLYMPIUS.

And, round thine altar's mouldering stones are born

Mysterious harpings,-wild as ever crept

From him who waked Aurora, every morn,
And sad as those he sung her, till she slept!
A thousand and a thousand years have swept
O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy spring,

A wreck in youth !—nor vainly hast thou kept
Thy lyre, Olympia's soul is on the wing,

And a new Iphitus has waked, beneath its string!

2

SAINT CECILIA.

AFTER A PICTURE BY MIGNARD, IN THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE. 3

HER hair streams backward,- like a cloud

Before the sun-light of her eyes,

That seem to pierce the fleecy shroud

Of the far, blue Italian skies!

Her hands amid the golden strings
Play,-like a spirit's wanderings,

Still making music as they stray,
And scattering incense on their way!
And softest harpings float around,

That make the chamber hallowed ground;

18

SAINT CECILIA.

Till every breeze that wanders by

Seems holy with the maiden's sigh,
And seraph-forms come stealing down,
To hear a music like their own!

Her robe is of the same pure white
Whose silver skirts yon azure sky,
Her form is like a form of light,-

But all the woman dims her eye

With tears that dare to look to heaven,

And griefs that mount-and are forgiven!

Deep in her warm and holy heart,

Are thoughts that play a mortal part,

And her young worship wafts above

The breathings of an earthly love!

Of earth, yet not a love that flings
One clog upon her spirit's wings,

Or, like a shadow, dimly lies

The lark may-like that spirit,—play

In the blue heavens, the livelong day,

And He who gave that

sunny thing

A mounting-yet a wearying-wing,
Will not refuse its morning flight,
Because it stooped to earth by night;
Nor shall the maiden's offering rise
Less stainless to her native skies,
Because the youthful saint reveals
The throbbings which the woman feels,
And pours to heaven her worship, fraught
With passion which itself hath taught!

The notes fall fainter on the ear,
Yet, still, the seraph leans to hear;-
Though sorrow sighs along the lyre,
And woman's fears have dimmed her fire,
And breathings, meant for God alone,

Echo some pulses of her own!

The angel stays, and stays to bless

Love-which, itself, is holiness!