224 THE NORTH-WESTER. All other secrets of their fate From darkness would the Muse redeem; Unheard-of horrors to relate, Which fancy scarce may dare to dream. And charnels of the waters wide, For them were wishes, longings, fears, SONG. WHERE are now the dreaming flowers, In the pale blue sky? And the pensée which arose Like a thought, earth-planted? Some are withered-some are dead- In our blood, and quick decay, ON SEEING THE ENDYMION OF ALBANO. The very music of his name has gone into my being. KEATS. I NEVER Would have drawn Endymion thus- His eye should have been fixed, but not in sleep; There let him kneel; with curved and parted lip With hands uplifted, pressed above his brow, Oh! who would close Endymion's eyes in sleep, THE CHANCE SHIP. BY PROFESSOR WILSON. How beautiful upon the wave See how before the wind she goes, The sea for many a league!-Descending, Now, as more freshly blows the gale, She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills. She holds in sight yon sheltered bay! Back whirl the waves with louder sound; They cast their eyes around the isles: But what a change is there! For ever fled that lonely smile That lay on earth and air, That made its haunts so still and holy, Almost for bliss too melancholy For life too wildly fair. Gone gone is all its loneliness, THE CHANCE SHIP. The day-shine pours like rain, Soon as the thundering cannon spoke, The spell of the enchantment broke, Soon shall they hear the unwonted cheers And the loud sounds of the oar, For her yards are bare of man and sail, But, on the ocean's breast, With storm-proof cables, stretching far, 227 TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS AT ATHENS. BY T. K. HERVEY. THOU art not silent!-oracles are thine Stands, roofless to the sky, thy house, Olympian Jove! 228 TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS. Thy columned aisles with whispers of the past Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters, Thou art not silent !—when the southern fair, Ionia's moon*, looks down upon thy breast, Smiling, as pity smiles above despair, Soft as young beauty soothing age to rest, Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest; And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours, Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest, Her lay-half hope, half sorrow-from the flowers, And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers! And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept From him who waked Aurora every morn, And sad as those he sung her till she slept ! A thousand, and a thousand years have swept O'er thee, who wert a mortal from thy springA wreck in youth+!-nor vainly hast thou kept Thy lyre! Olympia's soul is on the wing, And a new Ipithus has waked beneath its string! * Ionia was the name anciently given to Attica, and sometimes to the whole of Achaia. + The Temple of Jupiter Olympius, at Athens, was commenced by Pisistratus, on a scale of great magnificence, but never com pleted. |