Whose Lyre the spirit of sweet song had hung With myrtle and with laurel; on whose head Genius had shed his starry glories,-transcripts
Of woman's loving heart and woman's disappointment.
SHE leant upon her harp, and thousands looked On her in love and wonder;-thousands knelt And worshipped in her presence ;-burning tears, And words that died in utterance, and a pause Of breathless agitated eagerness,
First gave the full heart's homage; then came forth A shout that rose to heaven, and the hills, The distant valleys, all rang with the name Of the Eolian Sappho !—Every heart Found in itself some echo to her song.
Low notes of love, hopes beautiful and fresh,—— And some gone by for ever-glorious dreams, High aspirations, those thrice gentle thoughts That dwell upon the absent and the dead, Were breathing in her music-and these are Chords every bosom vibrates to. But she Upon whose brow the laurel crown is placed, Her colour's varying with deep emotion— There is a softer blush than conscious pride Upon her cheek, and in that tremulous smile Is all a woman's timid tenderness.
Her eye is on a Youth, and other days
And feelings warm have rushed on her soul
With all their former influence ;-thoughts that slept Cold, calm as death, have wakened to new life ;— Whole years' existence have passed in that glance.— She had once loved in very early days;
That was a thing gone by. One had called forth
The music of her soul.-He loved her too,
But not as she did :-she was unto him
As a young bird, whose early flight he trained,
Whose first wild songs were sweet, for he had taught
Those songs;-but she looked up to him with all Youth's deep and passionate idolatry;—
Love was her heart's sole universe-he was To her, Hope, Genius, Energy,—the God Her inmost spirit worshipped,-in whose smile Was all e'en minstrel pride held precious; praise Was prized but as the echo of his own. But other times and other feelings came:-- Hope is love's element, and love with her Sickened of its own vanity.-She lived Mid bright realities and brighter dreams, Those strange but exquisite imaginings
That tinge with such sweet colours minstrel thoughts; And Fame, like sunlight, was upon her path;
And strangers heard her name, and eyes that never Had looked on Sappho, yet had wept with her. Her first love never wholly lost its power, But, like rich incense shed, although no trace Was of its visible presence, yet its sweetness Mingled with every feeling, and it gave That soft and melancholy tenderness
Which was the magic of her song.-That Youth Who knelt before her was so like the shape
That haunted her spring dreams—the same dark eyes, Whose light had once been as the light of heaven!— Others breathed winning flatteries,—she turned A careless hearing;-but when Phaon spoke, Her heart beat quicker, and the crimson light Upon her cheek gave a most tender answer. She loved with all the ardour of a heart Which lives but in itself; her life had passed Amid the grand creations of the thought. Love was to her a vision ;-it was now Heightened into devotion.-But a soul So gifted and so passionate as her's Will seek companionship in vain, and find Its feelings solitary.-Phaon soon Forgot the fondness of his Lesbian maid;
And Sappho knew that talents, riches, fame, May not soothe slighted love.
There is a dark rock looks on the blue sea;
"Twas there love's last song echoed :-there She sleeps, Whose lyre was crowned with laurel, and whose name Will be remembered long as Love or Song
Are sacred-the devoted Sappho !
Literary Gazette.
FAREWELL, my Lute!-and would that I Had never waked thy burning chords! Poison has been upon thy sigh,
And fever has breathed in thy words.
Yet wherefore, wherefore should I blame Thy power, thy spell, my gentle lute? I should have been the wretch I am, Had every chord of thine been mute.
It was my evil star above,
Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love,
But it was love that taught me song.
If song be past, and hope undone,
And pulse, and head, and heart, are flame;
It is thy work, thou faithless one!
But, no! I will not name thy name!
Sun-god, lute, wreath, are vowed to thee! Long be their light upon my grave— My glorious grave!-Yon deep blue sea! I shall sleep calm beneath its wave!
BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.
POMP of Egypt's elder day,
Shade of the mighty passed away, (Whose giant works still frown sublime Mid the twilight shades of Time,) Fanes, of sculpture vast and rude, That strew the sandy solitude, Lo! before our startled eyes, As at a wizard's wand, ye rise, Glimmering larger through the gloom! While on the secrets of the tomb, Rapt in other times, we gaze, The Mother-Queen of ancient days, Her mystic symbol in her hand, Great Iris, seems herself to stand.
From mazy vaults, high-arched and dim, Hark! heard ye not Osiris' hymn?
And saw ye not in order dread The long procession of the dead? Forms that the night of years concealed, As by a flash, are here revealed; Chiefs who sang the victor song,— Sceptred Kings,-a shadowy throng,- From slumber of three thousand years Each, as in light and life, appears, Stern as of yore! Yes, vision vast, Three thousand years have silent passed, Suns of Empire risen and set
(Whose story Time can ne'er forget,) Time, in the morning of her pride, Immense, along the Nile's green side,
The City of the Sun appeared,
And her gigantic image reared.
As Memnon, like a trembling string When the Sun, with rising ray
Streaked the lonely desert grey, Sent forth its magic murmuring, That just was heard,-then died away;
So passed, oh! Thebes! thy morning pride! Thy glory was the sound that died!
Dark city of the desolate,
Once thou wert rich, and proud, and great! This busy-peopled isle was then
A waste, or roamed by savage men Whose gay descendants now appear To mark thy wreck of glory here.
Phantom of that city old, Whose mystic spoils I now behold, A kingdom's sepulchre,-oh say, Shall Albion's own illustrious day, Thus darkly close? Her power, her fame Thus pass away, a shade, a name?— The Mausoleum murmured as I spoke ;
A spectre seemed to rise, like towering smoke; It answered not, but pointed as it fled
To the black carcase of the sightless dead.
Once more I heard the sounds of earthly strife, And the streets ringing to the stir of life. Literary Gazette.
I saw a falling leaf soon strew
The soil to which it owed its birth:
I saw a bright star falling too
But never reach the quiet earth.
Such is the lowly portion blest,
Such is ambition's foiled endeavour;
The falling leaf is soon at rest,
While stars that fall, fall on for ever!
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