Grant us that love of truth sublime, GEORGE HILL. FROM THE RUINS OF ATHENS. THE daylight fades o'er old Cyllene's hill, And broad and dun the mountain shadows fall; The stars are up and sparkling, as if still Smiling upon their altars; but the tall Dark cypress, gently, as a mourner, bendsWet with the drops of evening as with tearsAlike o'er shrine and worshipper, and blends, All dim and lonely, with the wrecks of years, As of a world gone by no coming morning cheers. There sits the queen of temples-gray and lone. She, like the last of an imperial line, Has seen her sister structures, one by one, To time their gods and worshippers resign; And the stars twinkle through the weeds that twine Their roofless capitals; and, through the night, Heard the hoarse drum and the exploding mine, The clash of arms and hymns of uncouth rite, From their dismantled shrines, the guardian powers affright. [hear Go! thou from whose forsaken heart are reft The ties of home; and, where a dwelling-place Not Jove himself the elements have left, The grass-grown, undefined arena pace! Look on its rent, though tower-like shafts, and The loud winds thunder in their aged face; Then slowly turn thine eye, where moulders near A Cæsar's Arch, and the blue depth of space Vaults like a sepulchre the wrecks of a past race. Is it not better with the Eremite, Where the weeds rustle o'er his airy cave, Perch'd on their summit, through the long still night To sit and watch their shadows slowly wave- Of all man builds, time levels, and the cowl Guards her moping sage in common with the owl? Or, where the palm, at twilight's holy hour, Vainly the Spring her quickening dews away, And Love as vainly mourns, and mourns, alas! for aye. Or, more remote, on Nature's haunts intrude, Where, since creation, she has slept on flowers, Wet with the noonday forest-dew, and wooed By untamed choristers in unpruned bowers: By pathless thicket, rock that time-worn towers O'er dells untrodden by the hunter, piled Ere by its shadow measured were the hours To human eye, the rampart of the wild, Whose banner is the cloud, by carnage undefiled. The weary spirit that forsaken plods The world's wide wilderness, a home may find Here, mid the dwellings of long banish'd gods And thoughts they bring, the mourners of the mind; The spectres that no spell has power to bind, The loved, but lost, whose soul's life is in ours, As incense in sepulchral urns, enshrined, The sense of blighted or of wasted powers, The hopes whose promised fruits have perish'd with their flowers. There is a small low cape-there, where the moon Breaks o'er the shatter'd and now shapeless stone; The waters, as a rude but fitting boon, [thrown Weeds and small shells have, like a garland, Upon it, and the wind's and wave's low moan, And sighing grass, and cricket's plaint, are heard To steal upon the stillness, like a tone Remember'd. Here, by human foot unstirr'd, Its seed the thistle sheds, and builds the ocean-bird. Lurks the foul toad, the lizard basks secure Glory's fool-worshipper! here bend thy knee! A small gray elf, all sprinkled o'er with dust A what a name-perchance ne'er graven there; Sits peering through a scull, and laughs continually. THE MOUNTAIN GIRL. THE clouds, that upward curling from Melt into air gone are the showers, All hearts are by the spirit that A thing all lightness, life, and glee; With glossy ringlet, brow that is And cheek whereon the sunny clime Gently, as it reluctant were To leave its print on thing so fair- She stops, looks up-what does she see? A flower of crimson dye, Whose vase, the work of Moorish hands, A lady sprinkles, as it stands Upon a balcony: High, leaning from a window forth, Nor flower, nor lady fair she sees- That flower to her is as a tone One of a slumbering thousand, struck She sees beside the mountain brook, And toppling crag, a vine-thatch'd shed, The rivulet, the olive shade, That springs beneath the rock. Sister and mate, they may not from And one, the source of gentler fears, And hence her eye is dim, her cheek Her song has ceased, and motionless |