Poem by Lucretia Maria Davidson

Zante

 (Written in her seventeenth year)

She stood alone, 't was in that hour of thought,
When days gone by, with fading fancies fraught
Steal o'er the soul, and bear it back awhile,
Too sad, too heavy, or to weep or smile
O'er all life's sad variety of woe,
Which fades the cheek, and stamps upon the brow
The deep dark traces of its passage there,
In all the clouded majesty of care.
That hour was twilight; and the shade of night,
Which shuts the world and wickedness from sight,
Was walking o'er the waters, while its train
Of glittering millions danced along the main,
And Zante, that fairy island fading fast,
Seem'd first but faintly shadow'd, till at last
Tower, minaret, and turret, dimm'd by night,
Shone darkly grand, beneath Heav'n's silvery light.
And where was she, the lone one, for the sky
Had blush'd, then faded slowly to her eye —
Had deepen'd into darkness, till at last
Night's deep, broad pinion had before her pass'd;
And still she linger'd there, as noting not
The lonely breathlessness of that sad spot;
As heeding not the hour, the dreary sky,
Or aught that lay beneath her moveless eye.
She was a being form'd to love, and blest
With lavish Nature's richest loveliness.
Oh! I have often seen, in fancy's eye,
Beings too bright for dull mortality.
I've seen them in the visions of the night,
I've faintly seen them, when enough of light
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze,
As forms of other worlds, or brighter days.
Such was Ianthe, though perhaps less bright,
Less clearly bright, for mystery and night
Hung o'er her — she e'en lovelier seem'd,
More calm, more happy, when dim twilight gleam'd
Athwart the wave, than when the rude bright sun,
As though in mock'ry, o'er her sad brow shone.
There was a temple, which had stood, where then
Ianthe stood, and old and learned men
Mused o'er its ruins, marking here and there
Some porch, some altar, or some fountain, where
In other days, the towers of faith were raised,
Where victims bled, or sacred censers blazed;
There stood Ianthe, leaning on a shrine
Which rose half mournfully, from 'neath the vine,
Which as in seeming mock'ry had o'ergrown
And twin'd its tendrils round its breast of stone;
Around the ruin'd columns, shaft and step,
In undistinguish'd masses mould'ring slept,
And little dreaming of the years gone by,
Ere tyrant Time had hurl'd them from on high.
The moon emerging from the cloud more bright
The marble surface glitter d in its light;
Ianthe mark'd it — tears will sometimes steal,
From hearts which have perchance long ceas'd to feel —
She wept, and whether that cold trembling gleam
Which shone upon the column, where the beam
Fell on its brow, brought to her bleeding breast
Those gusts of sorrow, grief, despair, distress,
Or what it was I know not — but she wept
O'er the wide ruin which around her slept;
Then as if scorning—

1. The Wee Flower of the Heather
2. On the Death of the Beautiful Mrs.--
3. To a Friend, Whom I Had Not Seen Since My Childhood
4. On an Æolian Harp
5. Cupid’s Bower

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