218

CAPE COLONNA.

Earth's placid beauty shall your bosom fill,

Stirring its depths with love.

O, in the calm, still hours,

The holy Sabbath hours, when sleeps the air,

And heaven and earth, decked with her beauteous flowers, Lie hushed in breathless prayer,—

Pass ye the proud fane by,

The vaulted aisles, by flaunting folly trod,
And, 'neath the temple of the uplifted sky,
Go forth, and worship God!

CAPE COLONNA.

BY GEORGE HILL.

'Tis summer's eve.

The winds are still;

So calmly hushed the waters lie, So softly bright, they seem to blend

In airy distance with the sky.

219

CAPE COLONNA.

What hues of gorgeous beauty, o'er

Morea's hills and mountains rolled,

Their summits veil! where sinks the sun,
A monarch to his couch of gold.
From them 1 turn; from isles, along

Whose wild and lofty summits driven,

The rosy twilight lingers, till

They seem to melt and blend with Heaven :

Turn to the ruin, lone and dim,

That bears the name, and should have crowned The dust of him,* the spirit of

Whose song, though mute, is breathed around. Minstrel the thrilling summons of

Whose lyre the men of Greece obeyed— Soldier! whose charge had freed them, ere

His hand had sheathed her battle-blade!

Here should his relics rest, beside

This time-worn column, gray and rent; His name, his epitaph; the stone,

Whereon 'tis graved, his monument.

* Byron, whose name is inscribed on one of the columns.

W.

TO A MOONBEAM.

BY MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON.

AH, whither art straying, thou spirit of light,
From thy home in the boundless sky?

Why lookest thou down from the empire of night,
With that silent and sorrowful eye?

Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf,
Where it fell from its throne of pride;

But oh, what pictures of joy or grief,
What scenes thou art viewing beside!

Thou art glancing down on the ocean waves,
As they proudly heave and swell;
Thou art piercing deep in its coral caves,

Where the green-haired sea-nymphs dwell!

222

TO A MOONBEAM.

Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade,
Where mortal foot never hath trod;

Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid,
While the spirit hath gone to its God!

Thou art looking on those I love! oh, wake
In their hearts some remembrance of me,
And gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake
Of the love I am breathing to thee.

And perchance thou art casting this mystic spell

On the beautiful land of the blest,

Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell, Where the weary have fled to their rest.

Oh yes! with that soft and ethereal beam,

Thou hast looked on the mansions of bliss,
And some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world
Hath breathed thee a message to this.

'Tis a mission of love, for no threatening shade Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues,

And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill,

And while raising it, melts and subdues.

And it whispers compassion; for lo, on thy brow

Is the sadness of angels enshrined,