Ah! where are they, who heard, in former hours,

The voice of Song in these neglected bowers?

  They are gone—all gone!

The youth who told his pain in such sweet tone

That all who heard him wisht his pain their own—

  He is gone—he is gone!

And she who while he sung sat listening by

And thought to strains like these 'twere sweet to die—

  She is gone—she too is gone!

'Tis thus in future hours some bard will say

Of her who hears and him who sings this lay—

  They are gone—they both are gone!

* * * * *

The moon was now, from heaven's steep,

  Bending to dip her silvery urn

Into the bright and silent deep—

  And the young nymphs, on their return

From those romantic ruins, found

Their other playmates ranged around

The sacred Spring, prepared to tune

Their parting hymn,[16] ere sunk the moon,

To that fair Fountain by whose stream

Their hearts had formed so many a dream.

  Who has not read the tales that tell

Of old Eleusis' sacred Well,

Or heard what legend-songs recount

Of Syra and its holy Fount,[17]

Gushing at once from the hard rock

  Into the laps of living flowers—

Where village maidens loved to flock,

  On summer-nights and like the Hours

Linked in harmonious dance and song,

Charmed the unconscious night along;

While holy pilgrims on their way

  To Delos' isle stood looking on,

Enchanted with a scene so gay,

  Nor sought their boats till morning shone.

Such was the scene this lovely glade

And its fair inmates now displayed.

As round the Fount in linked ring

  They went in cadence slow and light

And thus to that enchanted Spring

  Warbled their Farewell for the night:—