None knew whence the humble Wind stole,
Poor sport of the skies—­
None dreamt that the Wind had a soul,
In its mournful sighs!

III

Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove
That bright love of thine? 
In thy light is the proof of thy love. 
Thou hast but—­to shine!

IV

How its love can the Wind reveal? 
Unwelcome its sigh;
Mute—­mute to its Rose let it steal—­
Its proof is—­to die!

‘Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl,’ said Glaucus; ’thy youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love; far other inspiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens upon us.

‘I sing as I was taught,’ replied Nydia, sighing.

’Thy master was love-crossed, then—­try thy hand at a gayer air.  Nay, girl, give the instrument to me.’  As Nydia obeyed, her hand touched his, and, with that slight touch, her breast heaved—­her cheek flushed.  Ione and Glaucus, occupied with each other, perceived not those signs of strange and premature emotions, which preyed upon a heart that, nourished by imagination, dispensed with hope.

And now, broad, blue, bright, before them, spread that halcyon sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries from that date, I behold it rippling on the same divinest shores.  Clime that yet enervates with a soft and Circean spell—­that moulds us insensibly, mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, banishing the thought of austerer labor, the voices of wild ambition, the contests and the roar of life; filling us with gentle and subduing dreams, making necessary to our nature that which is its least earthly portion, so that the very air inspires us with the yearning and thirst of love.  Whoever visits thee seems to leave earth and its harsh cares behind—­to enter by the Ivory gate into the Land of Dreams.  The young and laughing Hours of the present—­the Hours, those children of Saturn, which he hungers ever to devour, seem snatched from his grasp.  The past—­the future—­are forgotten; we enjoy but the breathing time.  Flower of the world’s garden—­Fountain of Delight—­Italy of Italy—­beautiful, benign Campania!—­vain were, indeed, the Titans, if on this spot they yet struggled for another heaven!  Here, if God meant this working-day life for a perpetual holiday, who would not sigh to dwell for ever—­asking nothing, hoping nothing, fearing nothing, while thy skies shine over him—­while thy seas sparkle at his feet—­while thine air brought him sweet messages from the violet and the orange—­and while the heart, resigned to—­beating with—­but one emotion, could find the lips and the eyes, which flatter it (vanity of vanities!) that love can defy custom, and be eternal?

It was then in this clime—­on those seas, that the Athenian gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit of the place:  feeding his eyes on the changeful roses of that softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, loving, and knowing himself beloved.