THE WELL OF OBLIVION.

SUGGESTED BY A STANZA IN THE ORLANDO INNAMORATO OF BOIARDO.

THERE is, they say, a secret well,

In Ardennes' forest grey,
Whose waters boast a numbing spell,
That memory must obey.

Who tastes the rill so cool and calm
In passion's wild distress,

Their breasts imbibe the sullen balm
Of deep forgetfulness.

And many a maid has sought the grove,
And bow'd beside the wave;
But few have borne to lose the love
That wore them to the grave.

No! by these tears, whose ceaseless smart

My reason chides in vain;

By all the secret of a heart

That never told its pain;

By all the walks that once were dear,
Beneath the greenwood bough;
By all the songs that soothed his ear
Who will not listen now;

By every dream of hope gone by
That haunts my slumber yet,—
A love-sick heart may long to die,
But never to forget!

THE ORACLE.

IMITATED FROM THE GREEK.

To Phoebus' shrine three youths of fame, A wrestler, boxer, racer came,

And begg'd the Delphic god to say, Which from the next Olympic game Should bear the envied wreath away? And thus the oracle decided :

"Be victors all, brave youths, this day, Each in your several arts !—provided That none outstrip the racer's feet, None at his trade the boxer beat,

None in the dust the wrestler lay!"

TO A WELCH AIR.

"CODIAD YR HYDOD,"

WHY that neck of marble whiteness,
Why that hair of sunny brightness,
Form of perfect mould;

Why those fringed eyelids screening,
Lights of love and liquid meaning,
While the heart is cold?

Shame on her whose pride or malice
With a lover's anguish dallies!
Scorn our scatter'd reason rallies:
Thou shalt mourn thy tyrant sallies,
Ere that thou art old—young Alice,
Ere that thou art old!

THE GROUND SWELL.

How soft the shades of evening creep O'er yonder dewy lea,

Where balmy winds have lull'd to sleep

The tenants of the tree.

No wandering breeze is here to sweep,

In shadowy ripple o'er the deep,

Yet swells the heaving sea!

How calm the sky! rest, ocean rest,
From storm and ruffle free,

Calm as the image on thy breast

Of her that governs thee!

And yet beneath the moon's mild reign

Thy broad breast heaves as one in pain, Thou dark and silent sea.

There are whom fortune vainly woos
With all her pageantry,
Whom every flattering bliss pursues,
Yet still they fare like thee;
The spell is laid within their mind,
Least wretched then when most resign'd,
Their hearts throb silently!

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

TAKE here the tender harp again,
O Muse! which thou hast lent to me;
I wake no more the joyous strain
To youthful love or social glee.

Forgive the weak and sickly shell
That could so ill my soul express;
What most I wish'd I durst not tell,
And chose my themes from idleness.

Oft when told of peace and pleasure,
I mark'd the hostile sabre shine;
And water, doled in scanty measure,
I drank, who wont to sing of wine.

Might peace, might love's auspicious fire
But gild at last my closing day,
Then, Goddess, then return the lyre
To wake perhaps a loftier lay.

BOW-MEETING SONG.

We find it well observed by an ancient learned Rabbin, The man was raving mad who first to sea would go, Who would change the tented field for the quarter-deck and cabin,

And the songs of blooming beauty for a Yo! heave oh! Yet since your bard is bent to try

The fervours of an Eastern sky,

And where, across the tepid main, Arabian breezes blow, While yet the northern gale

Fans his cheek and swells his sail,

Accept his latest tribute to the British bow!

Dear scenes of unrepented joy, our nature's best physician, Canall Golconda's glittering mines so pure a bliss bestow? Oh deem not that for sordid gold he left you, or ambition, Or shall e'er forget your peaceful charms 'mid India's brightest glow!