Once more she wept. But a changeful thing Wake again, mingle, sweet flute and lyre! Thou rearest the lovely to see them go! They are moving onward, the bridal throng, Ye may track their way by the swells of song; Ye may catch thro' the foliage their white robes' gleam, Like a swan midst the reeds of a shadowy stream. Their arms bear up garlands, their gliding tread Is over the deep-vein'd violet's bed; They have light leaves around them, blue skies above, An arch for the triumph of youth and love! II. Still and sweet was the home that stood In the flowering depths of a Grecian wood, With the soft green light o'er its low roof spread, As if from the glow of an emerald shed, Pouring thro' lime-leaves that mingled on high, Asleep in the silence of noon's clear sky. Citrons amidst their dark foliage glow'd, Making a gleam round the lone abode ; And thither Ianthis had brought his bride, And the guests were met by that fountain-side; They lifted the veil from Eudora's face, With lips of love, and a brow serene, Meet for the soul of the deep wood-scene.— The wine-cups foam'd, and the rose was shower'd Hush! be still! -was that no more Than the murmur from the shore? On the grass like trampling feet?— Thro' the dim olives their sabres shine ; -- Now must the red blood stream for wine! The youths from the banquet to battle sprang, There were flashing poniards, and darkening brows, Eudora, Eudora! thou dost not fly!- She saw but Ianthis before her lie, With the blood from his breast in a gushing flow, Like a child's large tears in its hour of wo, And a gathering film in his lifted eye, That sought his young bride out mournfully.— She knelt down beside him, her arms she wound, Might chain in life with its ivy-clasp. But they tore her thence in her wild despair, And on the wet violets a pile of slain, So clos'd the triumph of youth and love! III. Gloomy lay the shore that night, When the moon, with sleeping light, Bath'd each purple Sciote hill, Gloomy lay the shore, and still. O'er the wave no gay guitar Sent its floating music far; No glad sound of dancing feet But a voice of mortal wo, In its changes wild or low, Thro' the midnight's blue repose, From the sea-beat rocks arose, |