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,[13]

  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[14] 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,[15] 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:—