232 TEMPLE OF JUPITER OLYMPIUS. Thy column'd aisles with whispers of the past Are vocal!-and, along thine ivied walls, While Elian echoes murmur in the blast, And wild flowers hang, like victor-coronals, In vain the turban'd tyrant rears his halls, And plants the symbol of his faith and slaughters, Now, even now, the beam of promise falls Bright upon Hellas, as her own bright daughters, And a Greek Ararat is rising o'er the waters! Thou art not silent!-when the southern fair, Ionia's moon*, looks down upon thy breast, Smiling, as pity smiles above despair, Soft as young beauty soothing age to rest, Sings the night-spirit in thy weedy crest; And she, the minstrel of the moonlight hours, Breathes, like some lone one sighing to be blest, Her lay-half hope, half sorrow-from the flowers, And hoots the prophet-owl, amid his tangled bowers! And round thine altar's mouldering stones are born Mysterious harpings, wild as ever crept From him who waked Aurora every morn, And sad as those he sung her till she slept! A thousand, and a thousand years have swept O'er thee, who wert a moral from thy springA wreck in youth+!-nor vainly hast thou kept Thy lyre! Olympia's soul is on the wing, And a new Iphitus has waked beneath its string! Ionia was the name anciently given to Attica, and sometimes to the whole of Achaia. + The temple of Jupiter Olympius, at Athens, was commenced by Pisistratus, on a scale of great magnificence, but never completed. TO MISS MITFORD. BY MRS. HOFLAND. I SEND you mosses :-once they grew Or found a more sublime retreat. The spirit of the mountain smiled, The long clear lake before me spread- As youth's more brilliant tints disclose; I look'd o'er glens and dingles dank, Where many a streamlet glides unseen ; I gazed on many a glowing bank, Of golden furze and brackens green; 234 TO MISS MITFORD. Then mountains piled on mountains rise, And now, the mighty circle round, Through such a vast and fair expanse. Yes! there is Hallstead's noble seat, But here in Rampsbeck's lovely dome;- More freely given, more freely spread, My own dear home beneath my feet Thy turrets red, thy dwellings white; For minds as pure, and hearts as warm, The sun declines; we must return ;- Nor dare I tread the slippery ground: Till the steep greensward path we find. Oh! 'twas a wise and hardy wight, Of nerve untamed and sinews braced, That down the mountain's fearful height, This side-long pathway boldly traced; Safe on the lower ground I stand, That gentle bosom will not scorn, TO FANNY B., AGED THREE YEARS. BY J. H. REYNOLDS. Even so this happy creature of herself Is blithe society. WORDSWORTH. As young and pretty as the bud Chasing the wind, if there be any,— I look on thee, and in thy face, But sweet and rosy hues there are, So like the leaf when autumn flies:- |