Dedicated to Edward Softly, Esq.

Thro’ Dorian meads, where countless beauties bide,

A gentle river pours its crystal tide;

Pensive but sweet the singing currents flow,

While in each wave surpassing graces shew.

In this broad flood a tow’ring rock is seen,

Remote alike from either bank of green;

Around its base caressing ripples move,

And murmur with the dulcet tones of love.

Here the white dove, by Cyprus’ goddess bless’d,

With tender skill constructs its lofty nest;

Whilst on the stony summit proudly stands

A temple, looking o’er the stream-cleft lands.

Sometimes at night upon the river banks

A howling throng appear, in eager ranks;

Of feline form, their voices yet contain

A conscious throb, and more than beast-like strain.

Their longing glance the rocky islet seeks,

While ev’ry howl a baffled wish bespeaks;

At the cold stone their eyes enamour’d gleam,

And tongues revile the intervening stream.

Each spring there come from all the lands around

A virgin train, to tread the sacred ground.

In many a boat they reach the templed isle,

To pray for Cytheraea’s fav’ring smile;

And there ’tis said the Paphian Queen imparts

A balm that heals their love-distracted hearts.

Hither one day, by vagrant fancy brought,

I wander’d, half-dissolv’d in curious thought.

The silver stream shone beautiful and bright;

The island rock gleam’d lovely to my sight;

On flow’ring banks, and many a pansy’d steep,

Lay dreaming swains, at ease amidst their sheep.

The eldest of the band, whose beard of snow

Belied his black eyes’ reminiscent glow,

My question heard, and in quaint words unroll’d

The local legend, kept from days of old.

Long years ago, in these sequester’d shades,

Dwelt Myrrha, loveliest of the rustic maids;

No neighb’ring fair an equal grace possess’d,

And ev’n the nymphs inferior gifts confess’d.

Blue were her eyes; gold ringlets deck’d her head;

Rose-hued her cheeks, her lips of deeper red;

Unrivall’d features vied with height of soul,

And ev’ry charm of manner crown’d the whole.

But tho’ no other maid such charms could own,

On beauty’s peak the fair stood not alone;

For in a bow’r that nestled on the lawn

Liv’d the young Hylas, radiant as the dawn.

What words can paint, what tongue describe in truth

The fulgent graces of the tender youth?

A head Praxiteles might ne’er excel;

A form whose poise no poet half could tell;

Brown sparkling eyes in face of marble gleam’d;

Brown curling locks in rich profusion stream’d;

Such lips Apollo might in vain desire,

And over all shone wisdom’s gen’rous fire.

This stripling, rich in beauty and in art,

Own’d the fond Myrrha’s young confiding heart;

No noon seem’d bright, no azure sky seem’d clear

To Myrrha, save when Hylas linger’d near.

His lucent smile was trusting Myrrha’s sun,

And when he frown’d, she felt the day was done;

In his brown eyes her sole Elysium lay,

While in his arms she dream’d the hours away.

How oft the pair would tread the spangled green,

And praise the rapture of the rural scene!

Thro’ fragrant groves their blissful way they took,

Or paus’d to watch the windings of the brook;

Now and again their wand’ring forms would rest

On some acclivous slope, with daisies dress’d,

And here the lovely youth, with tender care,

Would weave a chaplet for his Myrrha’s hair.

Alas, that such blest innocence must know

The pangs of malice, and the hand of woe!

But while the ardent twain their loves reveal’d,

Invidious echoes fill’d the floral field.

Enrag’d to see a mortal maid enjoy

Such heav’nly pleasure, and so fair a boy,

The jealous Oreads of the hillside bow’rs

Conferr’d, and summon’d all their evil pow’rs.

Chief of the band malignant Phimua stood,

Her had young Hylas oft in days gone by

Repuls’d and scorn’d, as Myrrha’s form drew nigh.

Now spurr’d to action, she her minions leads,

And evil presence haunts the rolling meads.

’Twas on a roseate morning in genial June,

When op’ning buds forecast a cloudless noon,

The tender Hylas, some small wish deny’d,

Roam’d in a transient pet from Myrrha’s side.

Up a green slope the pouting stripling stray’d

(The while half-frantic for the absent maid),

When sudden from a secret grotto came

Rejected Phimua, warm with am’rous flame.

Ere he could flee, the nymph had seized his hand,

And call’d about her all the ardent band;

The more he struggled, tighter did they hold,

With love inflam’d, and with great numbers bold:

At length his feeble efforts died away,

And wretched Hylas own’d the Oreads’ sway.

These tidings soon to lonely Myrrha flew,

And blanch’d her crimson cheeks to ashen hue;

Morn, noon, and night beside the brook she mourn’d,

With streaming eyes, and tresses unadorn’d.

Succeeding months increasing anguish brought,

Till grief and pain possess’d her ev’ry thought;

Her ceaseless tears the rising brooklet bore

In mounting tides that lav’d the pensive shore,

And one bleak day a new-swell’d stream alone

Mark’d the sad spot that Myrrha once had known.

High in the hills the hapless youth remain’d,

Lov’d but unloving, by the Oreads chain’d;

While passing time but magnify’d his pain

To see the treasur’d Myrrha once again.

One night when all of Phimua’s train were deep

In the blank folds of wine-imparted sleep,

The boy, impatient of his hated lot,

Fled from the precincts of the hillside grot.

Down darkling slopes his hast’ning course he took,

Eager for Myrrha and the well-lov’d brook,

When a snapp’d twig that lurk’d along the route

Awak’d his captors, and arous’d pursuit.

From cave to copse swift pour’d the Oread throng,

On the hot chase by frenzy borne along,

Whilst Hylas pray’d for wings, that he might soar

To Myrrha’s side, and see the nymphs no more.

On far’d the fleet pursuers and pursu’d,

O’er moonlit glade, and thro’ the shady wood,

Till Hylas, nearly spent, now breath’d the air

Of lower meads, where flow’d his alter’d fair.

The conscious flood the strange procession spies,

And waves of wonder on her surface rise;

Her lover’s flight she notes with joyous mind,

Yet dreads the throng that press him hard behind.

On, on, the runners race, till Hylas sees

The new-swoln stream, and marks the grassy leas;

With many a cry the panting nymphs essay

To reach the boy, and bear the prize away;

But Hylas now the unknown river braves,

And plunges headlong in the friendly waves.

On to the shore bold Phimua’s band advance,

Intent to follow thro’ the stream’s expanse,

When Venus from the sky observes the sight,

And casts her magic on the troubled night.

Unwonted peace now fills the swaying groves,

And not a form on the broad champaign moves.

The nymphs, arrested in their eager chase,

Stand chang’d, and stript of all their former grace;

The beauteous train to furry felines shrink,

And hover baffled by the river’s brink!

110 Meanwhile the youth, within th’ embracing stream,

Senses his Myrrha in the pale moon’s gleam;

The flood, responsive, seeks with wat’ry flow

Some fond caress, or mark of love to shew.

Again the Paphian Queen her pow’r displays,

And on the scene a kind enchantment lays;

For as young Hylas nears the middle tides

A creeping change o’er all his figure glides:

He slackens, stops, then settles with a smile—

Transform’d forever to a rocky isle!

Thus rest the lovers thro’ eternal time,

While Nature blesses all the genial clime;

Her constant waves his faithful form caress,

And he survives in all his loveliness.

Atop his brow a fane of Venus stands,

Where pray the virgins of the neighb’ring lands,

And Myrrha’s tides on distant banks restrain

The feline hordes that still the youth would gain. —

Here ceas’d the shepherd, as the blazing day

In gold and purple twilight died away.

The deep’ning sky a starry host reveal’d,

And the young moon shone bright o’er flood and field.

I glanc’d about, entranc’d by all I view’d,

Then sought my homeward path thro’ shadowy wood.