Rhododaphne: or The Thessalian Spell

Front matter

RHODODAPHNE.

T. DAVISON, Lombard-street, Whitefriars, London.

RHODODAPHNE:

Preface

PREFACE.

The ancient celebrity of Thessalian magic is familiar, even from Horace, to every classical reader. The Metamorphoses of Apuleius turn entirely upon it, and the following passage in that work might serve as the text of a long commentary on the subject. "Considering that I was now in the middle of Thessaly, celebrated by the accordant voice of the world as the birthplace of the magic art, I examined all things with intense curiosity. Nor did I believe any thing which I saw in that city (Hypata) to be what it appeared; but I imagined that every object around me had been changed by incantation from its natural shape; that the stones of the streets, and the waters of the fountains, were indurated and liquified human bodies; and that the trees which surrounded the city, and the birds which were singing in their boughs, were equally human beings, in the disguise of leaves and feathers. I expected the statues and images to walk, the walls to speak; I anticipated prophetic voices from the cattle, and oracles from the morning sky."

According to Pliny, Menander, who was skilled in the subtleties of learning, composed a Thessalian drama, in which he comprised the incantations and magic ceremonies of women drawing down the moon. Pliny considers the belief in magic as the combined effect of the operations of three powerful causes, medicine, superstition, and the mathematical arts. He does not mention music, to which the ancients (as is shewn by the fables of Orpheus, Amphion, the Sirens, &c.) ascribed the most miraculous powers: but, strictly speaking, it was included in the mathematical arts, as being a science of numerical proportion.

The belief in the supernatural powers of music and pharmacy ascends to the earliest ages of poetry. Its most beautiful forms are the Circe of Homer, and Medea in the days of her youth, as she appears in the third book of Apollonius.

Lucian's treatise on the Syrian Goddess contains much wild and wonderful imagery; and his Philopseudes, though it does not mention Thessalian magic in particular, is a compendium of almost all the ideas entertained by the ancients of supernatural power, distinct from, and subordinate to, that of the gods; though the gods were supposed to be drawn from their cars by magic, and compelled, however reluctantly, to yield it a temporary obedience. These subjects appear to have been favourite topics with the ancients in their social hours, as we may judge from the Philopseudes, and from the tales related by Niceros and Trimalchio at the feast given by the latter in the Satyricon of Petronius. Trimalchio concludes his marvellous narrative by saying (in the words which form the motto of this poem): "You must of necessity believe that there are women of supernatural science, framers of nocturnal incantations, who can turn the world upside down."

It will appear from these references, and more might have been made if it had not appeared superfluous, that the power ascribed by the ancients to Thessalian magic is by no means exaggerated in the following poem, though its forms are in some measure diversified.

The opening scene of the poem is in the Temple of Love at Thespia, a town of Bœotia, near the foot of Mount Helicon. That Love was the principal deity of Thespia we learn from Pausanias; and Plutarch, in the beginning of his Erotic dialogue, informs us, that a festival in honour of this deity was celebrated by the Thespians with great splendor every fifth year. They also celebrated a quinquennial festival in honour of the Muses, who had a sacred grove and temple in Helicon. Both these festivals are noticed by Pausanias, who mentions likewise the three statues of Love, (though without any distinguishing attributes,) and those of Venus and Phryne by Praxiteles. The Winged Love of Praxiteles, in Pentelican marble, which he gave to his mistress Phryne, who bestowed it on her native Thespia, was held in immense admiration by the ancients. Cicero speaks of it as the great and only attraction of Thespia.

The time is an intermediate period between the age of the Greek tragedians, who are alluded to in the second canto, and that of Pausanias, in whose time the Thespian altar had been violated by Nero, and Praxiteles's statue of Love removed to Rome, for which outrageous impiety, says Pausanias, he was pursued by the just and manifest vengeance of the gods, who, it would seem, had already terrified Claudius into restoring it, when Caligula had previously taken it away.

The second song in the fifth canto is founded on the Homeric hymn, "Bacchus, or the Pirates."

Some other imitations of classical passages, but for the most part interwoven with unborrowed ideas, will occur to the classical reader.

The few notes subjoined are such as seemed absolutely necessary to explain or justify the text. Those of the latter description might, perhaps, have been more numerous, if much deference had seemed due to that species of judgment, which, having neither light nor tact of its own, can only see and feel through the medium of authority.

Σοφος ὁ πολλα ειδως φυᾳ. μαθοντες δε λαβροι παγγλωσσιᾳ, κορακες ὡς, ακραντα γαρυετον Διος προς ορνιχα θειον. >>Pind. Olymp. II.

Canto I.

RHODODAPHNE.

CANTO I.

RHODODAPHNE.

CANTO I.

The rose and myrtle blend in beauty Round Thespian Love's hypæthric fane; And there alone, with festal duty Of joyous song and choral train, From many a mountain, stream, and vale, And many a city fair and free, The sons of Greece commingling hail Love's primogenial deity.

Central amid the myrtle grove That venerable temple stands: Three statues, raised by gifted hands, Distinct with sculptured emblems fair, His threefold influence imaged bear, Creative, Heavenly, Earthly Love. 1 The first, of stone and sculpture rude, From immemorial time has stood; Not even in vague tradition known The hand that raised that ancient stone. Of brass the next, with holiest thought, The skill of Sicyon's artist wrought. 2 The third, a marble form divine, That seems to move, and breathe, and smile, Fair Phryne to this holy shrine Conveyed, when her propitious wile

Had forced her lover to impart The choicest treasure of his art. 3 Her, too, in sculptured beauty's pride, His skill has placed by Venus' side; Nor well the enraptured gaze descries Which best might claim the Hesperian prize. Fairest youths and maids assembling Dance the myrtle bowers among: Harps to softest numbers trembling Pour the impassioned strain along, Where the poet's gifted song Holds the intensely listening throng. Matrons grave and sages grey Lead the youthful train to pay Homage on the opening day Of Love's returning festival:

Every fruit and every flower Sacred to his gentler power, Twined in garlands bright and sweet, They place before his sculptured feet, And on his name they call: From thousand lips, with glad acclaim, Is breathed at once that sacred name; And music, kindling at the sound, Wafts holier, tenderer strains around: The rose a richer sweet exhales; The myrtle waves in softer gales; Through every breast one influence flies; All hate, all evil passion dies; The heart of man, in that blest spell, Becomes at once a sacred cell, Where Love, and only Love, can dwell. 4

From Ladon's shores Anthemion came, Arcadian Ladon, loveliest tide Of all the streams of Grecian name Through rocks and sylvan hills that glide. The flower of all Arcadia's youth Was he such form and face, in truth, As thoughts of gentlest maidens seek In their day-dreams: soft glossy hair Shadowed his forehead, snowy-fair, With many a hyacinthine cluster: Lips, that in silence seemed to speak, Were his, and eyes of mild blue lustre: And even the paleness of his cheek, The passing trace of tender care, Still shewed how beautiful it were If its own natural bloom were there.

His native vale, whose mountains high The barriers of his world had been, His cottage home, and each dear scene His haunt from earliest infancy, He left, to Love's fair fane to bring His simple wild-flower offering. She with whose life his life was twined, His own Calliroë, long had pined With some strange ill, and none could find What secret cause did thus consume That peerless maiden's roseate bloom: The Asclepian sage's skill was vain; And vainly have their vows been paid To Pan, beneath the odorous shade Of his tall pine; and other aid Must needs be sought to save the maid:

And hence Anthemion came, to try In Thespia's old solemnity, If such a lover's prayers may gain From Love in his primæval fane. He mingled in the votive train, That moved around the altar's base. Every statue's beauteous face Was turned towards that central altar. Why did Anthemion's footsteps falter? Why paused he, like a tale-struck child, Whom darkness fills with fancies wild? A vision strange his sense had bound: It seemed the brazen statue frowned— The marble statue smiled. A moment, and the semblance filed: And when again he lifts his head,

Each sculptured face alone presents Its fixed and placid lineaments. He bore a simple wild-flower wreath: Narcissus, and the sweet-briar rose; Vervain, and flexile thyme, that breathe Rich fragrance; modest heath, that glows With purple bells; the amaranth bright, That no decay nor fading knows, Like true love's holiest, rarest light; And every purest flower, that blows In that sweet time, which Love most blesses, When spring on summer's confines presses. Beside the altar's foot he stands, And murmurs low his suppliant vow, And now uplifts with duteous hands The votive wild-flower wreath, and now—

At once, as when in vernal night Comes pale frost or eastern blight, Sweeping with destructive wing Banks untimely blossoming, Droops the wreath, the wild-flowers die; One by one on earth they lie, Blighted strangely, suddenly. His brain swims round; portentous fear Across his wildered fancy flies: Shall death thus seize his maiden dear? Does Love reject his sacrifice? He caught the arm of a damsel near, And soft sweet accents smote his ear: —"What ails thee, stranger? Leaves are sear, "And flowers are dead, and fields are drear,

"And streams are wild, and skies are bleak, "And white with snow each mountain's peak, "When winter rules the year; "And children grieve, as if for aye "Leaves, flowers, and birds were past away: "But buds and blooms again are seen, "And fields are gay, and hills are green, "And streams are bright, and sweet birds sing; "And where is the infant's sorrowing?"— Dimly he heard the words she said, Nor well their latent meaning drew; But languidly he raised his head, And on the damsel fixed his view. Was it a form of mortal mould That did his dazzled sense impress? Even painful from its loveliness!

Her bright hair, in the noonbeams glowing, A rose-bud wreath above confined, From whence, as from a fountain, flowing, Long ringlets round her temples twined, And fell in many a graceful fold, Streaming in curls of feathery lightness Around her neck's marmoreal whiteness. Love, in the smile that round her lips, Twin roses of persuasion, played, —Nectaries of balmier sweets than sips The Hymettian bee,—his ambush laid; And his own shafts of liquid fire Came on the soul with sweet surprise, Through the soft dews of young desire That trembled in her large dark eyes;

But in those eyes there seemed to move A flame, almost too bright for love, That shone, with intermitting flashes, Beneath their long deep-shadowy lashes. —"What ails thee, youth?"—her lips repeat, In tones more musically sweet Than breath of shepherd's twilight reed, From far to woodland echo borne, That floats like dew o'er stream and mead, And whispers peace to souls that mourn. —"What ails thee, youth?"—"A fearful sign "For one whose dear sake led me hither: "Love repels me from his shrine, "And seems to say: That maid divine "Like these ill-omened flowers shall wither."—

—"Flowers may die on many a stem; "Fruits may fall from many a tree; "Not the more for loss of them "Shall this fair world a desert be: "Thou in every grove wilt see "Fruits and flowers enough for thee. "Stranger! I with thee will share "The votive fruits and flowers I bear, "Rich in fragrance, fresh in bloom; "These may find a happier doom: "If they change not, fade not now, "Deem that Love accepts thy vow."— The youth, mistrustless, from the maid Received, and on the altar laid The votive wreath it did not fade;

And she on his her offering threw. Did fancy cloud Anthemion's view? Or did those sister garlands fair Indeed entwine and blend again, Wreathed into one, even as they were, Ere she, their brilliant sweets to share, Unwove their flowery chain? She fixed on him her radiant eyes, And—"Love's propitious power,"—she said,— "Accepts thy second sacrifice. "The sun descends tow'rds ocean's bed. "Day by day the sun doth set, "And day by day the sun doth rise, "And grass with evening dew-drops wet "The morning radiance dries:

"And what if beauty slept, where peers "That mossy grass? and lover's tears "Were mingled with that evening dew? "The morning sun would dry them too. "Many a loving heart is near, "That shall its plighted love forsake: "Many lips are breathing here "Vows a few short days will break: "Many, lone amidst mankind, "Claim from Love's unpitying power "The kindred heart they ne'er shall find: "Many, at this festal hour, "Joyless in the joyous scene, "Pass, with idle glance unmoved, "Even those whom they could best have loved, "Had means of mutual knowledge been:

"Some meet for once and part for aye, "Like thee and me, and scarce a day "Shall each by each remembered be: "But take the flower I give to thee, "And till it fades remember me."— Anthemion answered not: his brain Was troubled with conflicting thought: A dim and dizzy sense of pain That maid's surpassing beauty brought; And strangely on his fancy wrought Her mystic moralisings, fraught With half-prophetic sense, and breathed In tones so sweetly wild. Unconsciously the flower he took, And with absorbed admiring look

Gazed, as with fascinated eye The lone bard gazes on the sky, Who, in the bright clouds rolled and wreathed Around the sun's descending car, Sees shadowy rocks sublimely piled, And phantom standards wide unfurled, And towers of an aërial world Embattled for unearthly war. So stood Anthemion, till among The mazes of the festal throng The damsel from his sight had past Yet well he marked that once she cast A backward look, perchance to see If he watched her still so fixedly.

Canto II.

RHODODAPHNE.

CANTO II.

RHODODAPHNE.

CANTO II.

Does Love so weave his subtle spell, So closely bind his golden chain, That only one fair form may dwell In dear remembrance, and in vain May other beauty seek to gain A place that idol form beside In feelings all pre-occupied? Or does one radiant image, shrined Within the inmost soul's recess,

Exalt, expand, and make the mind A temple, to receive and bless All forms of kindred loveliness?

Howbeit, as from those myrtle bowers, And that bright altar crowned with flowers, Anthemion turned, as thought's wild stream Its interrupted course resumed, Still, like the phantom of a dream, Before his dazzled memory bloomed The image of that maiden strange: Yet not a passing thought of change He knew, nor once his fancy strayed From his long-loved Arcadian maid. Vaguely his mind the scene retraced, Image on image wildly driven,

As in his bosom's fold he placed The flower that radiant nymph had given. With idle steps, at random bent, Through Thespia's crowded ways he went; And on his troubled ear the strains Of choral music idly smote; And with vacant eye he saw the trains Of youthful dancers round him float, As the musing bard from his sylvan seat Looks on the dance of the noontide heat, Or the play of the watery flowers, that quiver In the eddies of a lowland river. Around, beside him, to and fro, The assembled thousands hurrying go. These the palæstric sports invite, Where courage, strength, and skill contend;

The gentler Muses those delight, Where throngs of silent listeners bend, While rival bards, with lips of fire, Attune to love the impassioned lyre; Or where the mimic scene displays Some solemn tale of elder days, Despairing Phædra's vengeful doom, Alcestis' love too dearly tried, Or Hæmon dying on the tomb That closes o'er his living bride. 5 But choral dance, and bardic strain, Palæstric sport, and scenic tale, Around Anthemion spread in vain Their mixed attractions: sad and pale He moved along, in musing sadness, Amid all sights and sounds of gladness.

A sudden voice his musings broke. He looked; an aged man was near, Of rugged brow, and eye severe. —"What evil,"—thus the stranger spoke,— "Has this our city done to thee, "Ill-omened boy, that thou should'st be "A blot on our solemnity? "Or what Alastor bade thee wear "That laurel-rose, to Love profane, "Whose leaves, in semblance falsely fair "Of Love's maternal flower, contain "For purest fragrance deadliest bane? 6 "Art thou a scorner? dost thou throw "Defiance at his power? Beware! "Full soon thy impious youth may know. "What pangs his shafts of anger bear;

"For not the sun's descending dart, "Nor yet the lightning-brand of Jove, "Fall like the shaft that strikes the heart "Thrown by the mightier hand of Love."— —"Oh stranger! not with impious thought My steps this holy rite have sought. "With pious heart and offerings due "I mingled in the votive train; "Nor did I deem this flower profane; "Nor she, I ween, its evil knew, "That radiant girl, who bade me cherish "Her memory till its bloom should perish."— —"Who, and what, and whence was she?"— —"A stranger till this hour to me."— —"Oh youth, beware! that laurel-rose "Around Larissa's evil walls

"In tufts of rank luxuriance grows, Mid dreary valleys, by the falls "Of haunted streams; and magic knows "No herb or plant of deadlier might, "When impious footsteps wake by night "The echoes of those dismal dells, "What time the murky midnight dew "Trembles on many a leaf and blossom, "That draws from earth's polluted bosom "Mysterious virtue, to imbue "The chalice of unnatural spells. "Oft, those dreary rocks among, "The murmurs of unholy song, "Breathed by lips as fair as her's "By whose false hands that flower was given,

"The solid earth's firm breast have riven, "And burst the silent sepulchres, "And called strange shapes of ghastly fear, "To hold, beneath the sickening moon, "Portentous parle, at night's deep noon, "With beauty skilled in mysteries drear. "Oh, youth! Larissa's maids are fair; "But the dæmons of the earth and air "Their spells obey, their councils share, "And wide o'er earth and ocean bear "Their mandates to the storms that tear "The rock-enrooted oak, and sweep "With whirlwind wings the labouring deep. "Their words of power can make the streams "Roll refluent on their mountain-springs,

"Can torture sleep with direful dreams, "And on the shapes of earthly things, "Man, beast, bird, fish, with influence strange, "Breathe foul and fearful interchange, "And fix in marble bonds the form "Erewhile with natural being warm, "And give to senseless stones and stocks "Motion, and breath, and shape that mocks, "As far as nicest eye can scan, "The action and the life of man. "Beware! yet once again beware! "Ere round thy inexperienced mind, "With voice and semblance falsely fair, "A chain Thessalian magic bind, "Which never more, oh youth! believe, "Shall either earth or heaven unweave."—

While yet he spoke, the morning scene, In more portentous hues arrayed, Dwelt on Anthemion's mind: a shade Of deeper mystery veiled the mien And words of that refulgent maid. The frown, that, ere he breathed his vow, Dwelt on the brazen statue's brow; His votive flowers, so strangely blighted; The wreath her beauteous hands untwined To share with him, that, self-combined, Its sister tendrils reunited, Strange sympathy! as in his mind These forms of troubled memory blended With dreams of evil undefined, Of magic and Thessalian guile, Now by the warning voice portended

Of that mysterious man, awhile, Even when the stranger's speech had ended, He stood as if he listened still. At length he said:—"Oh, reverend stranger! "Thy solemn words are words of fear. "Not for myself I shrink from danger; "But there is one to me more dear "Than all within this earthly sphere, "And many are the omens ill "That threaten her: to Jove's high will "We bow; but if in human skill "Be ought of aid or expiation "That may this peril turn away, "For old Experience holds his station "On that grave brow, oh stranger! say."—

—"Oh youth! experience sad indeed "Is mine; and should I tell my tale, "Therein thou might'st too clearly read "How little may all aid avail "To him, whose hapless steps around "Thessalian spells their chains have bound: "And yet such counsel as I may "I give to thee. Ere close of day "Seek thou the planes, whose broad shades fall "On the stream that laves yon mountain's base: "There on thy Natal Genius call 7 "For aid, and with averted face "Give to the stream that flower, nor look "Upon the running wave again; "For, if thou should'st, the sacred plane "Has heard thy suppliant vows in vain;

"Nor then thy Natal Genius can, "Nor Phœbus, nor Arcadian Pan, "Dissolve thy tenfold chain."— The stranger said, and turned away. Anthemion sought the plane-grove's shade. 'Twas near the closing hour of day. The slanting sunbeam's golden ray, That through the massy foliage made Scarce here and there a passage, played Upon the silver-eddying stream, Even on the rocky channel throwing Through the clear flood its golden gleam. The bright waves danced beneath the beam To the music of their own sweet flowing. The flowering sallows on the bank, Beneath the o'ershadowing plane-trees wreathing

In sweet association, drank The grateful moisture, round them breathing Soft fragrance through the lonely wood. There, where the mingling foliage wove Its closest bower, two altars stood, This to the Genius of the Grove, That to the Naiad of the Flood. So light a breath was on the trees, That rather like a spirit's sigh Than motion of an earthly breeze, Among the summits broad and high Of those tall planes its whispers stirred; And save that gentlest symphony Of air and stream, no sound was heard, But of the solitary bird,

That aye, at summer's evening hour, When music save her own is none, Attunes, from her invisible bower, Her hymn to the descending sun. Anthemion paused upon the shore: All thought of magic's impious lore, All dread of evil powers, combined Against his peace, attempered ill With that sweet scene; and on his mind Fair, graceful, gentle, radiant still, The form of that strange damsel came; And something like a sense of shame He felt, as if his coward thought Foul wrong to guileless beauty wrought. At length—"Oh radiant girl!"—he said,— "If in the cause that bids me tread

"These banks, be mixed injurious dread "Of thy fair thoughts, the fears of love "Must with thy injured kindness plead "My pardon for the wrongful deed. "Ye Nymphs and Sylvan Gods, that rove "The precincts of this sacred wood! "Thou, Achelöus' gentle daughter, "Bright Naiad of this beauteous water! "And thou, my Natal Genius good! "Lo! with pure hands the crystal flood "Collecting, on these altars blest, "Libation holiest, brightest, best, "I pour. If round my footsteps dwell "Unholy sign or evil spell, "Receive me in your guardian sway; "And thou, oh gentle Naiad! bear

"With this false flower those spells away, "If such be lingering there."— Then from the stream he turned his view, And o'er his back the flower he threw. Hark! from the wave a sudden cry, Of one in last extremity, A voice as of a drowning maid! The echoes of the sylvan shade Gave response long and drear. He starts: he does not turn. Again! It is Calliroë's cry! In vain Could that dear maiden's cry of pain Strike on Anthemion's ear? At once, forgetting all beside, He turned to plunge into the tide, But all again was still:

The sun upon the surface bright Poured his last line of crimson light, Half-sunk behind the hill: But through the solemn plane-trees past The pinions of a mightier blast, And in its many-sounding sweep, Among the foliage broad and deep, Aërial voices seemed to sigh, As if the spirits of the grove Mourned, in prophetic sympathy With some disastrous love.

Canto III.

RHODODAPHNE.

CANTO III.

RHODODAPHNE.

CANTO III.

By living streams, in sylvan shades, Where winds and waves symphonious make Sweet melody, the youths and maids No more with choral music wake Lone Echo from her tangled brake, On Pan, or Sylvan Genius, calling, Naiad or Nymph, in suppliant song: No more by living fountain, falling The poplar's circling bower among,

Where pious hands have carved of yore Rude bason for its lucid store And reared the grassy altar nigh, The traveller, when the sun rides high, For cool refreshment lingering there, Pours to the Sister Nymphs his prayer. Yet still the green vales smile: the springs Gush forth in light: the forest weaves Its own wild bowers; the breeze's wings Make music in their rustling leaves; But 'tis no spirit's breath that sighs Among their tangled canopies: In ocean's caves no Nereid dwells: No Oread walks the mountain-dells: The streams no sedge-crowned Genii roll From bounteous urn: great Pan is dead:

The life, the intellectual soul Of vale, and grove, and stream, has fled For ever with the creed sublime That nursed the Muse of earlier time.

The broad moon rose o'er Thespia's walls, And on the light wind's swells and falls Came to Anthemion's ear the sounds Of dance, and song, and festal pleasure, As slowly tow'rds the city's bounds He turned, his backward steps to measure. But with such sounds his heart confessed No sympathy: his mind was pressed With thoughts too heavy to endure The contrast of a scene so gay;

And from the walls he turned away, To where, in distant moonlight pure, Mount Helicon's conspicuous height Rose in the dark-blue vault of night. Along the solitary road Alone he went; for who but he On that fair night would absent be From Thespia's joyous revelry? The sounds that on the soft air flowed By slow degrees in distance died: And now he climbed the rock's steep side, Where frowned o'er sterile regions wide Neptunian Ascra's ruined tower: 8 Memorial of gigantic power: But thoughts more dear and more refined Awakening, in the pensive mind,

Of him, the Muses' gentlest son, The shepherd-bard of Helicon, Whose song, to peace and wisdom dear, The Aonian Dryads loved to hear. By Aganippe's fountain-wave Anthemion passed: the moonbeams fell Pale on the darkness of the cave, Within whose mossy rock-hewn cell The sculptured form of Linus stood, Primæval bard. The Nymphs for him Through every spring, and mountain flood, Green vale, and twilight woodland dim, Long wept: all living nature wept For Linus; when, in minstrel strife, Apollo's wrath from love and life The child of music swept.

The Muses' grove is nigh. He treads Its sacred precincts. O'er him spreads The palm's aërial canopy, That, nurtured by perennial springs, Around its summit broad and high Its light and branchy foliage flings, Arching in graceful symmetry. Among the tall stems jagg'd and bare Luxuriant laurel interweaves An undershade of myriad leaves, Here black in rayless masses, there In partial moonlight glittering fair; And wheresoe'er the barren rock Peers through the grassy soil, its roots The sweet andrachne strikes, to mock 9

Sterility, and profusely shoots Its light boughs, rich with ripening fruits. The moonbeams, through the chequering shade, Upon the silent temple played, The Muses' fane. The nightingale, Those consecrated bowers among, Poured on the air a warbled tale, So sweet, that scarcely from her nest, Where Orpheus' hallowed relics rest, She breathes a sweeter song. 10 A scene, whose power the maniac sense Of passion's wildest mood might own! Anthemion felt its influence: His fancy drank the soothing tone Of all that tranquil loveliness; And health and bloom returned to bless

His dear Calliroë, and the groves And rocks where pastoral Ladon roves Bore record of their blissful loves. List! there is music on the wind! Sweet music! seldom mortal ear On sounds so tender, so refined, Has dwelt. Perchance some Muse is near, Euterpe, or Polymnia bright, Or Erato, whose gentle lyre Responds to love and young desire! It is the central hour of night: The time is holy, lone, severe, And mortals may not linger here! Still on the air those wild notes fling Their airy spells of voice and string,

In sweet accordance, sweeter made By response soft from caverned shade. He turns to where a lovely glade Sleeps in the open moonlight's smile, A natural fane, whose ample bound The palm's columnar stems surround, A wild and stately peristyle; Save where their interrupted ring Bends on the consecrated cave, From whose dark arch, with tuneful wave, Libethrus issues, sacred spring. Beside its gentle murmuring, A maiden, on a mossy stone, Full in the moonlight, sits alone : Her eyes, with humid radiance bright, As if a tear had dimmed their light,

Are fixed upon the moon; her hair Flows long and loose in the light soft air; A golden lyre her white hands bear; Its chords, beneath her fingers fleet, To such wild symphonies awake, Her sweet lips breathe a song so sweet, That the echoes of the cave repeat Its closes with as soft a sigh, As if they almost feared to break The magic of its harmony. Oh! there was passion in the sound, Intensest passion, strange and deep; Wild breathings of a soul, around Whose every pulse one hope had bound, One burning hope, which might not sleep.