Majestic o'er the Egean sea,
And heroes with it, one by one;
When, in the grove of Academe,
Where Lais and Leontium stray'd
Discussing Plato's mystic theme,
I lay at noontide in the shade-
The Egean wind, the whispering tree,
Had voices and I thought of thee.
I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Asia on the Dardanelles;
Where swiftly as the waters flee,
Each wave some sweet old story tells;
And, seated by the marble tank
Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old,
(The fount where peerless Helen drank,
And Venus laved her locks of gold,)*
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see,
Yet even here I thought of thee.
I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters,
All palace-lined from sea to sea;
And ever on its shores the daughters
Of the delicious East are seen,
Printing the brink with slipper'd feet.
And oh, the snowy folds between,
In the Scamander,-before contending for the prize of beauty on Mount
Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near the walls of Troy.
What eyes of heaven your glances meet! Peris of light no fairer be
Yet-in Stamboul-I thought of thee.
I've thought of thee-I've thought of thee,
Through change that teaches to forget;
Thy face looks up from every sea,
In every star thine eyes are set,
Though roving beneath Orient skies,
Whose golden beauty breathes of rest,
I envy every bird that flies
Into the far and clouded West:
I think of thee-I think of thee!
Oh, dearest! hast thou thought of me?
I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon,
And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and Egina lay hung
Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climb'd up the Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled, as time will in a dream,
Amidst its deathless ruins-for the air
Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,
And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep
Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And, in an absent idleness of thought,
I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!
I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent,
Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose
And silently stole forth, and by the brink
Of "gold Pactolus," where his waters bathe
The bases of Cybele's columns fair,
I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood
I mused upon the storied past awhile,
Watching the moon, that, with the same mild eye,
Had look'd upon the mighty Lydian kings
Sleeping around me-Croesus, who had heap'd
Within that mouldering portico his gold,
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring
Beneath yon swelling tumulus-and then
I loiter'd up the valley to a small
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled*
"Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their garments: and they shall walk with me in white: for they are worthy."— Revelation iii. 4.
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept
Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye
It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood
"The angel of the church of Sardis" still!
And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn.
Paled the bright morning-star, I laid me down
Weary and sad beside the river's brink,
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn,
Wrote with my finger in the "golden sands."
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon,"
And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved
From wild America to spicy Ind,
And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines
Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me,
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue,
And of dead kingdoms I recall the soul,
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored
My memory with thoughts that can allay
Fever and sadness, and when life gets dim,
And I am overladen in my years,
Minister to me. But when wearily
The mind gives over toiling, and with eyes
Open but seeing not, and senses all
Lying awake within their chambers dim,
Thought settles like a fountain, still and clear-
Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem,
Tell me, O memory, what shines so fair?
The face of the sweet child I knew at Rome!
THE PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN.
'Twas a summery day in the last of May-
Pleasant in sun or shade;
And the hours went by, as the poets say,
Fragrant and fair on their flowery way;
And a hearse crept slowly through Broadway-
And the Fountain gaily play'd.
The Fountain play'd right merrily,
And the world look'd bright and gay;
And a youth went by, with a restless eye,
Whose heart was sick and whose brain was dry;
And he pray'd to God that he might die—
And the Fountain play'd away.
Uprose the spray like a diamond throne,
And the drops like music rang-
And of those who marvell'd how it shone,
Was a proud man, left, in his shame, alone;
And he shut his teeth with a smother'd groan-
And the Fountain sweetly sang.
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