Classic Poem

Oh, Memory, how coldly
Thou paintest joy gone by:
Like rainbows, thy pictures
But mournfully shine and die.
Or if some tints thou keepest
That former days recall,
As o'er each line thou weepest,
Thy tears efface them all.

But, Memory, too truly
Thou paintest grief that's past;
Joy's colors are fleeting,
But those of Sorrow last.
And, while thou bringst before us
Dark pictures of past ill,
Life's evening closing o'er us
But makes them darker still.

* * * * *

So went the moonlight hours along,
In this sweet glade; and so with song
And witching sounds--not such as they,
The cymbalists of Ossa, played,
To chase the moon's eclipse away,
But soft and holy--did each maid
Lighten her heart's eclipse awhile,
And win back Sorrow to a smile.

Not far from this secluded place,
On the sea-shore a ruin stood;--
A relic of the extinguisht race,
Who once o'er that foamy flood,
When fair Ioulis by the light
Of golden sunset on the sight
Of mariners who sailed that sea,
Rose like a city of chrysolite
Called from the wave by witchery.
This ruin--now by barbarous hands
Debased into a motley shed,
Where the once splendid column stands
Inverted on its leafy head--
Formed, as they tell in times of old
The dwelling of that bard whose lay
Could melt to tears the stern and cold,
And sadden mid their mirth the gay--
Simonides, whose fame thro' years
And ages past still bright appears--
Like Hesperus, a star of tears!

'Twas hither now--to catch a view
Of the white waters as they played
Silently in the light--a few
Of the more restless damsels strayed;
And some would linger mid the scent
Of hanging foliage that perfumed
The ruined walls; while others went
Culling whatever floweret bloomed

In the lone leafy space between,
Where gilded chambers once had been;
Or, turning sadly to the sea,
Sent o'er the wave a sigh unblest
To some brave champion of the Free--
Thinking, alas, how cold might be
At that still hour his place of rest!

Meanwhile there came a sound of song
From the dark ruins--a faint strain,
As if some echo that among
Those minstrel halls had slumbered long
Were murmuring into life again.

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:--