See his wings, like amethyst

Of sunny Ind their hue;
Bright as when, by Psyche kist,

They trembled through and through.
Flowers spring beneath his feet;

Angel forms beside him run;
While unnumber'd lips repeat

"Love's victory is won!"

Hail to Love, to mighty Love, &c.

SONG OF HERCULES TO HIS DAUGHTER.1

"I've been, oh, sweet daughter,

"To fountain and sea,

"To seek in their water

"Some bright gem for thee,
"Where diamonds were sleeping,
"Their sparkle I sought,
"Where crystal was weeping,
"Its tears I have caught.

"The sea-nymph I've courted

"In rich coral halls;
"With Naiads have sported

"By bright waterfalls.

1 Founded on the fable reported by Arrian (in Indicis) of Hercules having searched the Indian Ocean, to find the pearl with which he adorned his daughter Pandæa.

"But sportive or tender,

"Still sought I, around,

"That gem, with whose splendour "Thou yet shalt be crown'd.

"And see, while I'm speaking,
"Yon soft light afar ;-
"The pearl I've been seeking
"There floats like a star!
"In the deep Indian Ocean
"I see the gem shine,
"And quick as light's motion
"Its wealth shall be thine."

Then eastward, like lightning,
The hero-god flew,

His sunny looks bright'ning

The air he went through.

And sweet was the duty,

And hallow'd the hour,
Which saw thus young Beauty,
Embellish'd by Power.

THE DREAM OF HOME.

WHO has not felt how sadly sweet

The dream of home, the dream of home,

Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet,

When far o'er sea or land we roam?

Sunlight more soft may o'er us fall,

To greener shores our bark may come;
But far more bright, more dear than all,
That dream of home, that dream of home.

Ask of the sailor youth when far

His light bark bounds o'er ocean's foam,
What charms him most, when ev'ning's star
Smiles o'er the wave? to dream of home.
Fond thoughts of absent friends and loves
At that sweet hour around him come;
His heart's best joy where'er he roves,

That dream of home, that dream of home.

THEY TELL ME THOU'RT THE FAVOUR'D GUEST.'

THEY tell me thou'rt the favour'd guest

Of every fair and brilliant throng;

No wit like thine to wake the jest,

No voice like thine to breathe the song;
And none could guess, so gay thou art,
That thou and I are far apart.

Alas! alas! how diff'rent flows

With thee and me the time away!

Part of a translation of some Latin verses, supposed to have been addressed by Hippolyta Taurella to her husband, during his absence at the gay court of Leo the Tenth. The verses may be found in the Appendix to Roscoe's Work.

Not that I wish thee sad-heav'n knows -
Still if thou canst, be light and gay ;

I only know, that without thee

The sun himself is dark to me.

Do I thus haste to hall and bower,

Among the proud and gay to shine?
Or deck my hair with gem and flower,
To flatter other eyes than thine?
Ah, no, with me love's smiles are past.
Thou hadst the first, thou hadst the last.

THE YOUNG INDIAN MAID.

THERE came a nymph dancing
Gracefully, gracefully,

Her eye a light glancing

Like the blue sea;

And while all this gladness

Around her steps hung,

Such sweet notes of sadness

Her gentle lips sung,

That ne'er while I live from my mem'ry shall fade The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid.

Her zone of bells ringing

Cheerily, cheerily,
Chimed to her singing

Light echos of glee;

But in vain did she borrow
Of mirth the gay tone,
Her voice spoke of sorrow,

And sorrow alone.

Nor e'er while I live from my mem'ry shall fade The song, or the look, of that young Indian maid.

THE HOMEWARD MARCH.

Be still, my heart: I hear them come :
Those sounds announce my lover near:
The march that brings our warriors home
Proclaims he'll soon be here.

Hark, the distant tread,

O'er the mountain's head,

While hills and dales repeat the sound;
And the forest deer

Stand still to hear,

As those echoing steps ring round.

Be still, my heart, I hear them come,

Those sounds that speak my soldier near; Those joyous steps seem wing'd for home, Rest, rest, he'll soon be here.

But hark, more faint the footsteps grow,
And now they wind to distant glades;
Not here their home,-alas, they go
To gladden happier maids!