As slow that minstrel at the close
Sunk while he sung to feigned repose,
Aptly did they whose mimic art
Followed the changes of his lay
Portray the lull, the nod, the start,
Thro' which as faintly died away
His lute and voice, the minstrel past,
Till voice and lute lay husht at last.

But now far other song came o'er
Their startled ears—song that at first
As solemnly the night-wind bore
Across the wave its mournful burst,
Seemed to the fancy like a dirge
Of some lone Spirit of the Sea,
Singing o'er Helle's ancient surge
The requiem of her Brave and Free.

Sudden amid their pastime pause
The wondering nymphs; and as the sound
Of that strange music nearer draws,
With mute inquiring eye look round,
Asking each other what can be
The source of this sad minstrelsy?
Nor longer can they doubt, the song
Comes from some island-bark which now
Courses the bright waves swift along
And soon perhaps beneath the brow
Of the Saint's Rock will shoot its prow.

Instantly all with hearts that sighed
'Twixt fear's and fancy's influence,
Flew to the rock and saw from thence
A red-sailed pinnace towards them glide,
Whose shadow as it swept the spray
Scattered the moonlight's smiles away.
Soon as the mariners saw that throng
From the cliff gazing, young and old,
Sudden they slacked their sail and song,
And while their pinnace idly rolled
On the light surge, these tidings told:—

'T was from an isle of mournful name,
From Missolonghi, last they came—
Sad Missolonghi sorrowing yet
O'er him, the noblest Star of Fame
That e'er in life's young glory set!—
And now were on their mournful way,
Wafting the news thro' Helle's isles;—
News that would cloud even Freedom's ray
And sadden Victory mid her smiles.

Their tale thus told and heard with pain,
Out spread the galliot's wings again;
And as she sped her swift career
Again that Hymn rose on the ear—
“Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!”
As oft 't was sung in ages flown
Of him, the Athenian, who to shed
A tyrant's blood poured out his own.