From The Museum of Foreign Literature, Science and Art, Volume 19, pages 665-666
From the Winter's Wreath.
NAPLES.
THE SONG OF THE SYREN.—BY MRS. HEMANS.
Then gentle winds arose
With many a mingled close,
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain odour keen;
Where the clear Baian ocean
Welters with air-like motion
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green.
Shelley.
Still is the Syren warbling on thy shore,
Bright City of the Waves!—her magic song
Still, with a dreamy sense of ecstasy,
Fills thy soft summer's air:—and while my glance
Dwells on thy pictured loveliness, that lay
Floats thus o'er Fancy's ear; and thus to thee,
Daughter of Sunshine! doth the Syren sing.
"Thine is the glad wave's flashing play,
Thine is the laugh of the golden day,
The golden day and the glorious night,
And the vine with its clusters all bathed in light!
—Forget, forget, that thou art not free!
Queen of the summer sea!
"Favoured and crowned of the earth and sky!
Thine are all voices of melody,
Wandering in moonlight through fane and tower,
Floating o'er fountain and myrtle bower;
Hark! now they melt o'er thy glittering sea;
—Forget that thou art not free
"Let the wine flow in thy marble halls:
Let the lute answer thy fountain falls!
And deck thy beach with the myrtle bough,
And cover with roses thy glowing brow!
Queen of the day and the summer sea,
Forget that thou art not free!"
******
So doth the Syren sing, while sparking waves
Dance to her chaunt.—But sternly, mournfully,
O city of the deep! from Sybil grots
And Roman tombs, the eches of thy shore
Take up the cadence of her strain alone,
Murmuring—"Thou art not free!"
