I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Vallombrosa's holy shade,
Where nobles born the friars be,

By life's rude changes humbler made.
Here Milton framed his Paradise ;
I slept within his very cell;
And, as I closed my weary eyes,

I thought the cowl would fit me wellThe cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me, Of heart's-ease-but I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Venice, on a night in June;
When, through the city of the sea,

Like dust of silver slept the moon.
Slow turn'd his oar the gondolier,

And, as the black barks glided by, The water to my leaning ear

Bore back the lover's passing sigh—

It was no place alone to be

I thought of thee-I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,

In the Ionian isles-when straying

With wise Ulysses by the sea

Old Homer's songs around me playing; Or, watching the bewitch'd caique,

That o'er the star-lit waters flew,

I listen'd to the helmsman Greek,

Who sung the song that Sappho knew—
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea,
All vanish'd-as I thought of thee.

I thought of thee-I thought of thee,
In Greece-when rose the Parthenon
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,)*

* 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.

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,

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,

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?

FLORENCE GRAY.

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 th' Acropolis at morn,
And hours had fled, as time will in a dream,

Amid 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,