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
On lofty Mell-Fell's highest brow;
They witness how I wish'd for you
While gazing on the world below-
A world so fair, and yet so rude,
Your own sweet Blanche's wandering feet
Ne'er gain'd a deeper solitude,

Or found a more sublime retreat.

The spirit of the mountain smiled,
And as I trod the steep ascent,
Fresh air and glowing beams beguiled
The toilsome way; and oft I bent,
Half trembling, and with proud delight,
To find myself advanced so high,
That I had reach'd the envied height,
Where the green mountain kiss'd the sky.

The long clear lake before me spread-
A crystal mirror, where, enshrined,
The cot, the copse, the edge-bound mead,
Deep in the watery world reclined;
With such a soft reflected grace,

As youth's more brilliant tints disclose;
When we the mother's beauties trace
In her first girl-her blooming rose.

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,
Of every form and every hue;
Here, huge Helvellyn meets the skies,
There, frowning Skiddaw towers to view:

And now, the mighty circle round,
A giant rampart strikes the sense,
Within whose limits scenes are found
Close to the sight, yet far, far hence;
And scarcely can the dazzled eye,
Inebriate with its eager glance,
Distinguish what it can descry

Through such a vast and fair expanse.

Yes! there is Hallstead's noble seat,
Reposing like the dappled fawn;
The blue lake winds around its feet,
The dark oaks spot its emerald lawn:
Beneath gray Stybraw's craggy brow
(The mountain-queen of Patrick's dale),
Beams Asken's dwelling, sweetly low,
The shelter'd" lily of the vale."

But here in Rampsbeck's lovely dome;-
The light smoke, curling through the trees,
Seems as if beckoning those who roam,
To rest them here in joyous ease;
For ne'er was hospitable board

More freely given, more freely spread,
And ne'er was polish'd mind more stored
Than his who welcomes at its head.

My own dear home beneath my feet
Recalls the fond excursive flight;
Yet, distant Penrith! I must hail

Thy turrets red, thy dwellings white;

For minds as pure, and hearts as warm,
Within those social dwellings rest:
Thine kindled love, thine beauty's charm,
And kindness to the stranger-guest.

The sun declines; we must return ;-
But, ah, my giddy brain turns round;
I cannot hear the trickling burn,

Nor dare I tread the slippery ground:
My dear companion's arm my stay,
She leads me trembling, falt'ring, blind,
Unused to such adventurous way,

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;
The blood that warms my recreant veins,
From the same source its being gain'd,
But time, and sea, and southern plains,
The mountaineer's bold drops have drain’d.

Safe on the lower ground I stand,
Exulting in the labour past-
My sylvan prize is in my hand,
Which, Mitford! at your feet I cast;
Assured that e'en my humble lay

That gentle bosom will not scorn,
Though genius pour'd the brilliant ray
That your own truthful works adorn.

TO FANNY B., AGED THREE YEARS.

BY J. H. REYNOLDS.

Even so this happy creature of herself
Is all sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society.

WORDSWORTH.

As young and pretty as the bud
Of the strawberry in the wood;
As restless as the fawn that's there,
Playing like a thing of air,-

Chasing the wind, if there be any,—
Like these thou art, my little Fanny!

I look on thee, and in thy face,
The life is there of childish grace:
I see the silent thought that breaks
Into young smiles, as fancy wakes;
And newly wing'd intelligence,
Trying its little flights from thence;
I see a strife 'twixt health and beauty,
Which shall the best achieve its duty;
A gentle strife, for both contend,
But both, like bees, their labour blend.
Thy cheek by health is rounded well,
By its hand invisible;

But sweet and rosy hues there are,
And you may trace young beauty there.
Health made thy gentle lips to be
So glad in their own company;
So lavish of the cherry's dyes,

So like the leaf when autumn flies:-
But beauty claims thy young blue eyes;