But, no--the nymphs knew well the tone--
A maiden of their train, who loved
Like 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:--
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,[16] 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,[17]
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.
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