SONG OF A HYPERBOREAN.

I COME from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens grow;

Where the winds of the north, becalm'd in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.*

Haste to that holy Isle with me,

So near the track of the stars are wet,
That oft, on night's pale beams,
The distant sounds of their harmony

Come to our ear, like dreams.

Then, haste to that holy Isle with me, &c. &c.

* On the Tower of the Winds, at Athens, there is a conchshell placed in the hands of Boreas. See Stuart's Antiquities. "The north wind," says Herodotus, in speaking of the Hyperboreans, "never blows with them."

"Sub ipso siderum cardine jacent.”

POMPON. MELA.

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,

"They can shew the moon very near.'

DIODOR. SICUL.

† Hecatæus tells us, that this Hyperborean island was dedicated to Apollo; and most of the inhabitants were either priests or songsters.

+ Pausan.

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 pass'd away.

Since first that music touch'd 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 sighAh! 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 arm'd, 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 feather'd 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 arm'd, Cupid, now,

And thy battle-hour is near.