An evil genius visited the happy islands which repose upon the bosom of
the deep blue sea. In these smiling gardens the blest recline, remote
from the turmoil and confusion of life: there are trees loaded with
golden fruits--flowers of a thousand hues, and sweet fountains of
limpid water spread their silvery lines along the emerald lea. The
melody of singing birds, the soft murmur of running streams, and sounds
of distant music, fall upon the ravished ear. The wanton breeze steals
fragrance from the flowers as it passes on, and sweet perfumes scent
the air. Here childish innocence reposes on beds of flowers; there
groups of maturer years recline on verdant knolls, enjoying the passing
hour. Pairs wander arm in arm in pursuit of pleasures that never pall,
and gay crowds lightly dance their hours away in mirth and song. The
genius pronounces the fatal word, and each breathing figure is
transformed to mute and changeless stone. The voice of mirth is hushed,
the tones of music have fled, years roll away, and the living statues
still look in marble coldness on the changing scene. Its flowers
wither--its trees of golden fruits die one by one away--the birds flee
from their green retreats, and the creeping serpent hisses in the
tangled brake--tall rank grass covers the favorite walks, or choke the
streams, whose turbid waters force their sluggish way. At length a
passing vessel stops--a stranger wanders over the wondrous scene. On a
pillar an inscription is engraved; he pauses to read the word, and
instantly the spell is broken--the marble statues melt into silent
shadows of the human form, and flitting forth in pairs and groups, they
wander over their once loved home. They seek their familiar haunts;
they search for the objects of their love; and each shadow as it
passes, whispers, _gone_: and returning to their places, their forms
resume their marble lineaments, and stand once more cold monuments of
their former selves. Such indeed is the human mind. First comes youth's
genial season; hopes linked with loves in happy pairs, wander around
the smiling scene, which fancy decks with flowers. Here joy dancing to
the song of mirth, lightly whiles his hours away; there young
affections and gentle thoughts, like virgin sisters of a primeval race,
pursue their quiet way to the bright abode which fancy hath created so
beautiful and fair. But at length sorrow comes to breathe its spell.
How many hopes, and loves, and pure affections, and pleasant thoughts,
are changed and gone! Inurned in icy coldness, they are sepulchered in
memory's cave; and yet, perhaps, some simple word of other times is
breathed, its spell evokes departed joys and buried loves. Dim shadows
of the past arise--they fleeting come. But fancy too is changed; it no
longer forms the gay creations of its youth, but fills its gloomy
fields with pictures at which the heart doth shrink. The very thoughts
for which we sighed, are now without a home, and seek to pass away.