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SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;
Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow."
Haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste—hastel

So near the track of the stars are we, f
That oft, on night’s pale beams,
The distant sounds of their harmony
Come to our ears, like dreams.
Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, &c., &c.

The Moon, too, brings her world so nigh,t
That when the night-seer looks
To that shadowless orb, in a vernal sky,
He can number its hills and brooks.
Then, haste, &c., &c.

To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres||
By day, by night, belong;
And the breath we draw from his living fires,
We give him back in song.
Then, haste, &c., &c.

From us descends the maid who brings
To Delos gifts divine;
And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings
To glitter on Delphi's shrine.'
Then, haste to that holy Isle with me,
Haste—hastel

THOU BIDST ME SING.

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee
In other days, ere joy had left this brow;
But think though still unchanged the notes may be,
How diss’rent feels the heart that breathes them now I
The rose thou wear’st to-night is still the same
We saw this morning on its stem so gay;
But, ah! that dew of dawn, that breath which came
Like life o'er all its leaves, hath passed away.

Since first that music touched thy heart and mine,
How many a joy and pain o'er both have past—
The joy, a light too precious long to shine,
The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last.
And though that lay would like the voice of home
Breathe o'er our ear, 'twould waken now a sigh—
Ah not, as then, for fancied woes to come,
But, sadder far, for real bliss gone by.

CUPID ARMED.

PLACE the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear; Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near. March on 1 march on thy shaft and bow Were weak against such charms; March on 1 march on so proud a foe Scorns all but martial arms.

See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they shine ! Ev'ry shaft, hs it flies, Mocking proudly at thine. March on 1 march on thy feathered darts Soft bosoms soon might move; But ruder arms to ruder hearts Must teach what 'tis to love. Place the helm on thy brow; In thy hand take the spear— Thou art armed, Cupid, now, And thy battle-hour is near.

* n the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch-sner. p, ocell in the hands of Boreas –See “Stuart's Antiquities.” “Tive north wind,” says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboeans, “never blows with them.” t “Sub "pso siderum cardine jacent.”—Pow pox. MELA. # "They can show the moon very near.”—Dioponus Siculus. W Hecataeus tells us that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo , and most of the inhabitants were either priests or **** -------- A Pausan.

ROUND THE WORLD GOES.

Round the world goes, by day and night,
While with it also round go we ;
And in the flight of one day's light
An image of all life’s course we see.
Round, round, while thus we go round,
The best thing a man can do,
Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round,
By—sending the wine round too.
Our first gay stage of life is when
Youth, in its dawn, salutes the eye–
Season of bliss " Oh, who wouldn’t then
Wish to cry, “Stop!” to earth and sky
But, round, round, both boy and girl
Are whisked through that sky of blue;
And much would their hearts enjoy the whirl,
If–their heads didn’t whirl round too.
Next, we enjoy our glorious noon,
Thinking all life a life of light;
But shadows come on, 'tis evening soon,
And, ere we can say, “How short P−'tis sighl.
Round, round, still all goes round,
Even while I’m thus singing to you;
And the best way to make it a merry-go-round,
Is to—chorus my song round too.

OH, DO NOT LOOK SO BRIGHT AND B. ST

OH, do not look so bright and blest,
For still there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
There lurks a dread in all delight,
A shadow near each ray,
That warns us then to fear their flight,
When most we wish their stay.
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.
Why is it thus that fairest things
The Goonest fleet and die — .
That when most light is on their wings,
They’re then but spread to fly
And, sadder still, the pain will stay—
The bliss no more appears;
As rainbows take their light away,
And leave us but the tears :
Then look not thou so bright and blest,
For ah! there comes a fear,
When brow like thine looks happiest,
That grief is then most near.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS.

FLY swift, my light gazelle,
To her who now lies waking,
To hearthy silver bell
The midnight silence breaking.
And, when thou comest, with gladsome feet.
Beneath her lattice springing,
Ah, well she’ll know how sweet
The words of love thou’rt bringing.

Yet, no—not words, for they
But half can tell love's feeling;
Sweet flowers alone can say
What passion fears revealing,
A once bright rose's withered leas,
A tow’ring lily broken—
Oh these may paint a grief
No words could e'er have spoken.

Not such, my gay gazelle,
The wreath thou speedest over
Yon moonlight dale, to tell
My lady how I love her.
-And, what to her will sweeter be
Than gems the richest, rarest,
From Truth’s immortal tree"
Co. s. 'eless leaf thou bearest.

THE MUSICAL BOX.

“Look here,” said Rose, with laughing eyes, “Within this box, by magic hid, A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies, Who sings to me whene'er he's bid. Though roving once his voice and wing, He’ll now lie still the whole day long; Till thus I touch the magic spring— Then hark, how sweet and blithe his song!” (.4 symphony.) “Ah, Rose,” I cried, “the poet's lay Must ne'er e'en Beauty’s slave become; Through earth and air his song may stray, If all the while his heart’s at home. And though in Freedom’s air he dwell, Nor bond nor chain his spirit knows, Touch but the spring thou know'st so well, And—hark, how sweet the love-song flows!” (.4 symphony.) Thus pleaded I for Freedom's right; But when young Beauty takes the field, And wise men seek defence in flight, The doom of poets is to yield. No more my heart the enchantress braves, I’lu now in Beauty’s prison hid; The Sprite and I are fellow-slaves, And I, too, sing whene’er I’m bid.

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That light we thought would last,
Behold, e'en now, 'tis past:
And all our morning dreams
Have vanished with its beams |
But come ! 'twere vain to borrow
Sad lessons from this lay,
For man will be to-morrow—
Just what he’s been to-day.

YOUNG LOVE.

Young Love lived once in an humble shed,
Where roses breathing,
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourished,
For young Hope nourished
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, though blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.

Alas ! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither:
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh-
She came one morning,
Ere Love had warning,
And raised the latch, where the young god lay :
“Oh ho!” said Love—“is it you? good-by;”
So he he ope’d the window, and flew away 1

To SIGH, YET FEEL No PAIN.

To sigh, yet feel no pain,
To weep, yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with Beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by.
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine,
But those we just have won.
This is love, faithless love,
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame,
Through life unchilled, unmoved.
To love, in wintry age, the same
As first in youth we loved;
To feel that we adore,
Even to such fond excess,
That, though the heart would break with more,
It could not live with less.
This is love, faithful love,
Such as saints might feel above.

SPIRIT OF JOY.

SPIRrt of Joy, thy altar lies
In youthful hearts that hope like mine;
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes,
That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
There if we find the sigh, the tear,
They are not those to Sorrow known;
But breath so soft, and drops so clear,
That Bliss may claim them for her own.
Then give me, give me, while I weep,
The sanguine hope that brightens wo,
And teaches even our tears to keep
The tinge of pleasure as they flow.

The child, who sees the dew of night
Upon the spangled hedge at morn,
Attempts to catch the drops of light,
But wounds his finger with the thorn.
Thus of the brightest joys we seek,
Are lost, when touched, and turned to pain
The flush they kindled leaves the cheek,
The tears they wakenlong remain.
But give me. wive me. &c. &c.

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After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring,
That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,

** –— ---1- - - - ------ " --- + ------he soar.

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