THE MARTYR OF SCIO.
Bright summer breathed in Scio. Gay she hung
Her coronal upon the olive groves,
Flushed the rich clusters on the ripening vines,
And shook fresh fragrance from the citron boughs,
Till every breeze was satiate. But the sons
Of that fair isle bore winter in their soul.
'Mid the proud temples of their ancestors,
And through the weeping mastic bowers, their step
Was like the man who hears the oppressor's voice
In Nature's softest echo; for the Turk
In sullen domination sternly roamed
Where mighty Homer awed the listening world.
Once to the proud divan, with stately step,
A youth drew near. Surpassing beauty sate
Upon his princely brow, and from his eye
A glance like lightning parted as he spake.
"I had a jewel. From my sires it came
In long transmission; and upon my soul
There was a bond to keep it for my sons.
