[From Issue #316, 8 February 1823 (p 91)
Discussed in: http://medallionwafers.wordpress.com/tag/Tyrtaeus

The bard Tyrtaeus's (alternatively,Tyrtaios) music reportedly inspired the Spartan army to victories during the second Messenian War. Read some of Tyrtaeus's writing here.]

HEAD OF TYRTAEUS.
Glorious bard! whose lyre was heard
Amid the armed ring,
As victory were upon each word
And death on every string--
Glorious Bard! to whom belong
Wreaths not often claimed by song,
Those hung round the warrior’s shield--
Laurels from the blood-red field.
The soldier cowered beneath his tent,
His sword all rust, his bow unbent;
His comrades, who had dared to die,
Unburied on the plain,
And, jeered by mocking foemen nigh,
He dared not taunt again.
The Bard took up his burning song;
Each heart beat high, each arm grew strong:
He told them of the curse and shame
That darken round the coward’s name;
Told how the mother’s cheek would burn
To hear her son had fled,
How the young maiden’s smile would turn
To tears, should it be said,--
“The war strength of thy lover’s brand
Is weaker than thine own fair hand;”
And proudly rung his harp while telling
The fallen warrior’s fame,
When trumpet, shout, and song are swelling
All glorious with his name.
It was enough,--each sword was out,
The mountains trembled in the shout
Of men prepared like men to die
For Sparta and for victory!

[From Issue #316, 8 February 1823 (p 91)
Discussed in http://medallionwafers.wordpress.com/tag/unknown-female-head/ ]

UNKNOWN FEMALE HEAD.
I know not of thy history, thou sad
Yet beautiful faced Girl:--the chesnut braid
Bound darkly round thy forehead, the blue veins
Wandering in azure light, the ivory chin
Dimpled so archly, have no characters
Graven by memory; but thy pale cheek,
Like a white rose on which the sun hath looked
Too wildly warm, (is not this passion’s legend?)
The drooping lid whose lash is bright with tears,
A lip which has the sweetness of a smile
But not its gaiety--do not these bear
The scorched footprints sorrow leaves in passing
O’er the clear brow of youth?--It may but be
An idle thought, but I have dreamed thou wert
A captive in thy hopelessness: afar
From the sweet home of thy young infancy,
Whose image unto thee is as a dream
Of fire and slaughter, I can see thee wasting,
Sick for thy native air, loathing the light
And cheerfulness of men; thyself the last
Of all thy house, a stranger and a slave!

[From Issue #316, 8 February 1823 (p 91)]

A Youth, with a Lyre in his hand, kneeling to a Female half turning to him, as in the act of reconciliation.
Yes! I have sinned ‘gainst love and thee;
  Both heart and harp have been untrue:
I cannot deem how they could be
  Wakened by any one but you!

But my harp in the sunshine hung,
  And I was proud to wake the strings,
And other hands than thine have flung
  Flowers and laurel offerings.

Too dear I prized those flatteries,
  And bowed me at an idol’s shrine,
And breathed in vanity the sighs
  Which should have been thine, only thine.

I pray thee pardon, for the sake
  Of my so long devoted strain;
I pray thee pardon me, and take
  Thy truant to thy heart again!

[From Issue #316, 8 February 1823 (p 91)
Discussed in: http://medallionwafers.wordpress.com/tag/Hercules

Legend has it that Hercules fell in love with Iole, daughter of Eurytus, but that Eurytus refused to give his daughter in marriage to someone with such a violent temper. Hercules left and married Deianira, only to return to kill Eurytus and claim Iole as a concubine. Jealous, Deianira gave her husband a shirt or cloak soaked in what she believed to be a love potion. In reality, it was a poison planted with her by Hercules's enemy, and putting on the cloak killed him.]

HERCULES AND IOLE.

She held the cup; and he the while
Sat gazing on her playful smile,
As all the wine he wished to sip
Was one kiss from her rosebud lip.
Half leaning to him, half withdrawn,
Like one above the waters bending,
And blushing like the maiden dawn
Before the bridegroom sun’s ascending--
The head a little turned aside,
Downcast the eyes, as if to hide
Beneath their black fringe, shadowy dim,
The glance which yet would steal to him--
Her hero love, IOLE stood.
And the dark Chief had washed the blood
From his red hands, and thrown away
His arms, which there all useless lay,
As every trophy that he sought,
By time and toil and danger bought,
Were won in winning woman’s sigh--
One glance from her bewildering eye.
His arms are round the graceful shape
As if he feared it could escape,
Guarding like life what is so dear--
All this is love’s delicious fear--
And yet delaying ere he presses
That lip so soft, that cheek so bright,
As tho’ the joy of those caresses
Would, like the burst of sudden light,
Be too much happiness. - - - There were
Warfare and danger, toil and care,
Even from earliest infancy,
Hero of sorrows! marked for thee;
But can they countervail the bliss
That lightens o’er an hour like this?

[From Issue #316, 8 February 1823 (p 91)]

LOVE SLEEPING BENEATH A PALM-TREE.
Ah, this is ours! that gentle Love
  Sleeping beneath the palm-tree’s shade,
Weaving the white wings of the dove,
  His bow, unbent, beside him laid,
Give me the Love that wil not change,
  Tho’ aught and all were changed beside;
The love that nothing can estrange,
  Whate’er of weal or woe betide;
Fixed in one faith, vowed to one vow,
  Thro’ every chance and change of ill,
Bearing with all Love meets below
  Of sorrow, yet devoted still!
It may have wings, but they must be
  Of colours in all lights the same,
Like the moth’s, hovering constantly,
  Even to death, around one flame.
A star that shines forth night and day,
  A wreath of spring and winter flowers,
Emblem true love. And I may say,
  May I not, dear!--”Such love is ours”
L. E. L.