THE BRIDE OF THE GREEK ISLE.* Fear!-I'm a Greek, and how should I fear death? A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom? COME from the woods with the citron-flowers, Come with your lyres for the festal hours, Bore their sweet songs o'er the Grecian seas;- * Founded on a circumstance related in the Second Series of the Curiosities of Literature, and forming part of a picture in the "Painted Biography" there described. Jewels flash'd out from her braided hair, Like starry dews midst the roses there; Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, For the aspect of woman at times too high, Of the soul sent up o'er its fervid beam. She look'd on the vine at her father's door, Each hue of her childhood's faded track. Oh! hush the song, and let her tears When the young bride goes from her father's hall; She goes unto love yet untried and new, She parts from love which hath still been true; Till her heart's deep well-spring is clear again! Like a babe that sobs itself to rest; She wept-yet laid her hand awhile In his that waited her dawning smile, Her soul's affianced, nor cherish'd less For the gush of nature's tenderness! She lifted her graceful head at last The choking swell of her heart was past; And her lovely thoughts from their cells found way In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.3 THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL. Why do I weep?—to leave the vine The myrtle-yet, oh! call it mine!- A thousand thoughts of all things dear, I leave my sunny childhood here, I leave thee, sister! we have play'd Thro' many a joyous hour, Where the silvery green of the olive shade Hung dim o'er fount and bower. Yes, thou and I, by stream, by shore, In song, in prayer, in sleep, Have been as we may be no more— Kind sister, let me weep! I leave thee, father! Eve's bright moon Must now light other feet, With the gather'd grapes, and the lyre in tune, Thy homeward step to greet. Thou in whose voice, to bless thy child, Lay tones of love so deep, Whose eye o'er all my youth hath smiled— I leave thee! let me weep! Mother! I leave thee! on thy breast, Pouring out joy and wo, I have found that holy place of rest Still changeless,-—yet I go! Lips, that have lull'd me with your strain, Will earth give love like yours again? And like a slight young tree, that throws The weight of rain from its drooping boughs, B |