era--men, nations, customs
perish; THE AFFECTIONS ARE IMMORTAL!--they are the sympathies which
unite the ceaseless generations. The past lives again, when we look
upon its emotions--it lives in our own! That which was, ever is! The
magician's gift, that revives the dead--that animates the dust of
forgotten graves, is not in the author's skill--it is in the heart of
the reader!

Still vainly seeking the eyes of Ione, as, half downcast, half averted,
they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a low and soft voice, thus
expressed the feelings inspired by happier thoughts than those which had
colored the song of Nydia.

THE SONG OF GLAUCUS

I
As the bark floateth on o'er the summer-lit sea,
Floats my heart o'er the deeps of its passion for thee;
All lost in the space, without terror it glides,
For bright with thy soul is the face of the tides.
Now heaving, now hush'd, is that passionate ocean,
As it catches thy smile or thy sighs;
And the twin-stars that shine on the wanderer's devotion
Its guide and its god--are thine eyes!

II

The bark may go down, should the cloud sweep above,
For its being is bound to the light of thy love.
As thy faith and thy smile are its life and its joy,
So thy frown or thy change are the storms that destroy.
Ah! sweeter to sink while the sky is serene,
If time hath a change for thy heart!
If to live be to weep over what thou hast been,
Let me die while I know what thou art!

As the last words of the song trembled over the sea, Ione raised her
looks--they met those of her lover. Happy Nydia!--happy in thy
affliction, that thou couldst not see that fascinated and charmed gaze,
that said so much--that made the eye the voice of the soul--that
promised the impossibility of change!

But, though the Thessalian could not detect that gaze, she divined its
meaning by their silence--by their sighs. She pressed her hands lightly
across her breast, as if to keep down its bitter and jealous thoughts;
and then she hastened to speak--for that silence was intolerable to her.

'After all, O Glaucus!' said she, 'there is nothing very mirthful in
your strain!'

'Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up thy lyre, pretty one. Perhaps
happiness will not permit us to be mirthful.'

'How strange is it,' said Ione, changing a conversation which oppressed
her while it charmed--'that for the last seve