Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

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-haste!

So near the track of the stars are we,t
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,‡
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-haste!

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 diff'rent feels the heart that breathes them now!
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 march on! thy shaft and bow
Were weak against such charms;
March on 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, as it flies,

Mocking proudly at thine.

March on 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-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.
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!”—'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
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 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,
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 leaf,
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

One fadeless leaf thou bearest.

*The tree, called in the East, Amrita or the Immortal

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

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,
And wise men seek defence in flight,
The doom of poets is to yield.

No more my heart the enchantress braves,
I'm now in Beauty's prison hid;
The Sprite and I are fellow-slaves,
And I, too, sing whene'er I'm bid.

WHEN TO SAD MUSIC SILENT YOU LISTEN. WHEN to sad music silent you listen,

And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew,
Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten
A sweet holy charm that mirth never knew.
But when some lively strain resounding
Lights up the sunshine of joy on that brow,
Then the young reindeer o'er the hills bounding
Was ne'er in its mirth so graceful as thou.

When on the skies at midnight thou gazest,
A lustre so pure thy features then wear,

That, when to some star that bright eye thou raisest,
We feel 'tis thy home thou'rt looking for there.
But, when the word for the gay dance is given,
So buoyant thy spirit, so heartfelt thy mirth,

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 hunt o'er hill and lee?
The sail o'er summer sea?
Oh let not hour so sweet
Unwinged by pleasure fleet.

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?

But see, while we're deciding,
What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,

And morn hath passed away!
Ah, who'd have thought that noon
Would o'er us steal so soon-
That morn's sweet hour of prime
Would last so short a time?

But come, we've day before us,

Still heaven looks bright and blue
Quick, quick, ere eve come o'er us,
What sport shall we pursue?

Alas! why thus delaying?
We're now at evening's hour;
Its farewell beam is playing

O'er hill and wave and bower.

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!

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.

SPIRIT of Joy, thy altar lies

In youthful hearts that hope like mme;
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 oft 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, give me, &c., &c.

WHEN LEILA TOUCHED THE LUTE.

WHEN Leila touched the lute,
Not then alone 'twas felt,
But, when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.

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
When brows are glowing,

And faint with rowing,

Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.
The beams that flash on the oar awhile,

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;
For him there's a story in every breeze,
And a picture in every wave.
Then sing to lighten the languid way;-
When brows are glowing,
And faint with rowing:
'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay,
To whose sound through life we stray.

OH THINK, WHEN A HERO IS SIGHING.

OH think, when a hero is sighing,
What danger in such an adorer!
What woman could dream of denying

The hand that lays laurels before her?
No heart is so guarded around,

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 dear to the heart her remembrance remains,
Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth,

And sad the remembrance that slavery stains.
Oh Liberty, born in the cot of the peasant,
But dying of languor in luxury's dome,

Our vision, when absent-our glory, when present-
Where thou art, O Liberty! there is my home.
Farewell to the land where in childhood I wandered!
In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave;
Unblessed is the blood that for tyrants is squandered,
And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave.
But hail to thee, Albion! who meet'st the commotion
Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam;
With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean,
Hail, Temple of Liberty! thou art my home.

[ocr errors][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

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-
As doth this bounding heart to thee,
My ever blissful Maami !

Such bright hours were not made to stay;
Enough if they a while remain,
Like Irem's bowers, that fade away,

From time to time, and come again.
And life shall all one Irem be
For us, my gentle Maami!

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
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin ;-
One, to whom all the world's a debtor--
So Doctor Hymen was called in,

And Love that night slept rather better.
Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Though still some ugly fever latent ;-
"Dose, as before"-a gentle opiate,

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.

SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

HERE AT THY TOMB.*

BY MELEAGER.

HERE, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,

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.
Where is she? where the blooming bough
That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,
And all its flowers in dust are laid.
Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest
Gently, as in a mother's arms.

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,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,-
Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget-
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone
'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one;
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb-
Unless I could meet with a live one.

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.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
Of those young ringlets full of light?
Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
The bright blue gem of India's mine,
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
"Twill pale before one glance of thine;
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
With some divine, mellifluous air,

Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
Had let loose all its witch'ries there?||

Δάκρυα σοι και νερθε δια χθονος, Ηλιοδώρα.
Ap. BRUNCK.
† Μικκη και μελανουσα Φιλίννιον.
Ap. BRUNCK. I.

* Ούτε ξόδων στεφανων επιδεύεσαι, ούτε ου πεπλων.
Ap. BRUNCK. xvii.

και ή μελίφυρτος εκείνη
Ήθεος άρμονιη, κεστος έφν Παρίης.

Here, to this conquering host of charms
I now give up my spell-bound heart,
Nor blush to yield e'en Reason's arms,
When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art.
Thus to the wind all fears are given;

Henceforth those eyes alone I see,
Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,
Sits beck'ning me to bliss and thee!

SALE OF CUPID.*

BY MELEAGER.

WHO'LL buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he,
Fast asleep, sly rogue, on his mother's knee;
So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,
So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.
See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled,
His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled ;

And those fingers, which still ever ready are found
For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.
He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile,
But never you mind-he's laughing all the while,
For little he cares, so he has his own whim,
And weeping or laughing are all one to him.
His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,
His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash;
And so savage is he, that his own dear mother,
Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.
In short, to sum up this darling's praise,
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see, the boy wakes-his bright tears flow-
His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? on no,
Sweet child no, no-though so naughty you be,
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TWINEST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATII It BROW?t

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

TWIN'ST thou with lofty wreath thy brow?
Such glory then thy beauty sheds,

I almost think, while awed I bow,
'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt-this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave,
Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt-I must
Be charmed by all thou dost!

E'en when, enwrapped in silv'ry veils,‡
Those sunny locks elude the sight-
Oh, not e'en then their glory fails
To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,

It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend,
Presiding o'er each new attire,
And lending every dart they send
Some new, peculiar touch of fire.
Be what thou wilt-this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!

[blocks in formation]

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,
Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,

And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking
Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day's sunny glory,

While thine hath a vice,t on whose breath,
More sweet than than the Syren's sweet story,

My hopes hang, through life and through death!

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

BY MELEAGER.

STILL, like dew in silence falling,
Drops for thee the nightly tear;
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
Here for ever fixed thou art;

As thy form first shone before me,
So 'tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain,

Thou who cam'st with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again ?§
Why? why?

[blocks in formation]

Who'd stay on land to-day?
The very flowers

Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!
Leave languid youths to pine
On silken pillows,

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."
Up, boy! the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o'er thee,
The deep before thee,
Al. aloud, “ Away !”

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.
BY ALCEUS.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
Still midst the brave and free,

In isles, o'er ocean lying,

Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leaped forth like flame, the midnight banquet brigh'n
And in the dust a despot victim laid.

Blest youths, how bright in Freedom's story
Your wedded names shall be;

A tyrant's death your glory,
Your meed, a nation free!

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?"

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

WHY does she so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renewed,
Watching here in solitude.
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay ?

Vainly now have two lamps shone
See the third is nearly gone;f
Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,

Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear
Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!

But to one so false as she

What is man or deity?

Neither doth this proud one fear,

[ocr errors]

No, neither doth she fear.

Δηθύνει Κλεοφαντες.

Ap. BRUNCK. Xxviii.
ὁ δε τρίτος αρχεται ηλε

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
Where fixed thou shinest alone.

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.

« FöregåendeFortsätt »