Majestic o'er the Egean sea, I lay at noontide in the shade- I thought of thee-I thought of thee, Each wave some sweet old story tells; And, seated by the marble tank Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, 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 Printing the brink with slipper'd feet. * 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, In every star thine eyes are set, 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, Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sca. 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 15 Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes, And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew, Of a tall column of the Parthenon, I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base. I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood I mused upon the storied past awhile, 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 The angel of the church of Sardis" still! The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon," And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved From wild America to Bosphor's waters, 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, 1 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 PITY OF THE PARK FOUNTAIN. 'Twas a summery day in the last of May- And the hours went by, as the poets say, 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- Uprose the spray like a diamond throne, And of those who marvell'd how it shone, |