SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN. I COME from a land in the sun-bright deep, Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep, Haste to that holy Isle with me, So near the track of the stars are we,t Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, &c., &c. The Moon, too, brings her world so nigh,‡ To the Sun-god all our hearts and lyres|| And the breath we draw from his living fires, Then, haste, &c., &c. From us descends the maid who brings To Delos gifts divine; And our wild bees lend their rainbow wings Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, THOU BIDST ME SING. THOU bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days, ere joy had left this brow; How diff'rent feels the heart that breathes them now! The pain, a cloud whose shadows always last. CUPID ARMED. PLACE the helm on thy brow, And thy battle-hour is near. March on march on! thy shaft and bow Scorns all but martial arms. See the darts in her eyes, Tipt with scorn, how they shine! Ev'ry shaft, as it flies, Mocking proudly at thine. March on march on thy feathered darts (n the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conch-shen D. Acet in the hands of Boreas-See "Stuart's Antiquities." "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboeans, "never blows with them." +"Sub ipso siderum cardine jacent."-POMPON. MELA. "They can show the moon very near."-DIODORUS SICULUS. Hecatus tells us that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters ◊ Pausan. ROUND THE WORLD GOES. Is to make it, at least, a merry-go-round, Youth, in its dawn, salutes the eye- 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!”—'tis night. 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 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 soonest fleet and die ?— That when most light is on their wings, They're then but spread to fly ! And, sadder still, the pain will stayThe 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 hear thy silver bell The midnight silence breaking. And, when thou comest, with gladsome feet, 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; The wreath thou speedest over My lady how I love her. One fadeless leaf thou bearest. *The tree, called in the East, Amrita or the Immortal 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!" (A 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!" (A symphony.) Thus pleaded I for Freedom's right; But when young Beauty takes the field, No more my heart the enchantress braves, WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN. WHEN to sad music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, When on the skies at midnight thou gazest, That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest, Oh then we exclaim, "Ne'er leave earth for heaven, But linger still here, to make heaven of earth." THE DAWN IS BREAKING O'ER US. THE dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've day's long light before us, What sport shall we pursue? The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue; But see, while we're deciding, And morn hath passed away! But come, we've day before us, Still heaven looks bright and blue Alas! why thus delaying? O'er hill and wave and bower. That light we thought would last, But come! 'twere vain to borrow YOUNG LOVE. YOUNG Love lived once in an humble shed, Where roses breathing, And woodbines wreathing Around the lattice their tendrils spread, 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, The flowers laid down their heads to die, 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! 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; This is love, faithless love, To keep one sacred flame, Through life unchilled, unmoved, To love, in wintry age, the same 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. SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies In youthful hearts that hope like mme; The tinge of pleasure as they flow. But give me, give me, &c., &c. WHEN LEILA TOUCHED THE LUTE. WHEN Leila touched the lute, Ah! how could she, who stole Such breath from simple wire, Be led, in pride of soul, To string with gold her lyre? Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh; Golden now the strings she waketh? But where are all the tales Her lute so sweetly told? In lofty themes she fails, And soft ones suit not gold. Rich lute! we see thee glisten, But, alas! no more we listen! BOAT GLEE. THE song that lightens our languid way And faint with rowing, Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, As we row along through waves so clear, Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile That shines o'er Sorrow's tear. Nothing is lost on him who sees With an eye that feeling gave; OH THINK, WHEN A HERO IS SIGHING. OH think, when a hero is sighing, The hand that lays laurels before her? But the smile of a victor would take it; No bosom can slumber so sound, But the trumpet of Glory will wake it. Love sometimes is given to sleeping, And wo to the heart that allows him; For soon neither smiling nor weeping Will e'er from such slumber arouse him. Bt though he were sleeping so fast, That the life almost seemed to forsake him, Even then, one soul-thrilling blast From the trumpet of Glory would wake him. SONG. THOUGH sacred the tie that our country entwineth, And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. Our vision, when absent-our glory, when present- HALTE, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in th' unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye Can see the blush of future bowers; And joy it brings to thee and me, My own beloved Maami ! The streamlet frozen on its way, To feed the marble Founts of Kings, Now, loosened by the vernal ray, Upon its path exulting springs- Such bright hours were not made to stay; From time to time, and come again. Oh haste, for this impatient heart Is like the rose in Yemen's vale, That rends its inmost leaves apart With passion for the nightingale; So languishes this soul for thee, My bright and blushing Maami ! LOVE AND HYMEN. LOVE had a fever-ne'er could close To let him pine so were a sin ;- And Love that night slept rather better. For which old Hymen has a patent. After a month of daily call, So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now tock, the rogue! to downright snoring. Ꮇ SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. HERE AT THY TOMB.* BY MELEAGER. HERE, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, And wept o'er thee with all love's soul; Wept in remembrance of that light, Which naught on earth, without thee, gives, Hope of my heart! now quenched in night, But dearer, dead, than aught that lives. MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.† BY PHILODEMUS. My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown, But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear, But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.‡ BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. To weave a garland for the rose, And think thus crowned 'twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose That silks and gems add grace to thee. Who would not say that Beauty's cestus Δάκρυα σοι και νερθε δια χθονος, Ηλιοδώρα. * Ούτε ξόδων στεφανων επιδεύεσαι, ούτε ου πεπλων. και ή μελίφυρτος εκείνη Here, to this conquering host of charms Henceforth those eyes alone I see, SALE OF CUPID.* BY MELEAGER. WHO'LL buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he, And those fingers, which still ever ready are found TWINEST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATII It BROW?t BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. TWIN'ST thou with lofty wreath thy brow? I almost think, while awed I bow, Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave, E'en when, enwrapped in silv'ry veils,‡ It charms in every way. For, thee the Graces still attend, WHEN THE SAD WORD. BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. WHEN the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, And with it Hope passes away, Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling That fatal farewell, bids me stay. For oh! 'tis a penance so weary One hour from thy presence to be, That death to this soul were less dreary, Less dark than long absence from thee. Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking, And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking While thine hath a vice,t on whose breath, My hopes hang, through life and through death! STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING. BY MELEAGER. STILL, like dew in silence falling, Day and night the spell hangs o'er me, As thy form first shone before me, Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness, Thou who cam'st with so much fleetness, Who'd stay on land to-day? Would from their bowers But be the billows Of the great deep thine. Hark, to the sail the breese sings, "Let us fy;" While soft the sail, replying to the breeze, Says, with a yielding sigh, "Yes, where you please." IN MYRTLE WREATHS. In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, In isles, o'er ocean lying, Thy home shall ever be. In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Blest youths, how bright in Freedom's story A tyrant's death your glory, WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?" BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY. WHY does she so long delay? Vainly now have two lamps shone Still, still, burns on. Gods, how oft the traitress dear But to one so false as she What is man or deity? Neither doth this proud one fear, No, neither doth she fear. Δηθύνει Κλεοφαντες. Ap. BRUNCK. Xxviii. Λύχνος ὑποκλαζειν. UNPUBLISHED SONGS, NOT FROM THEE. Nor from thee the wound should come, No, not from thee. I care not what, or whence, my doom, So not from thee! Cold triumph! first to make This heart thy own; And then the mirror break ETC. Not from thee the wound should come, Oh, not from thee. I care not what, or whence, my doom, So not from thee. Yet no-my lips that wish recall; From thee, from thee If ruin o'er this head must fall, "Twill welcome be. |