HUNTING SONG.

FROM THE DIALECT OF THE NAUDOWESSES, ONE OF THE INDIAN TRIBES IN NORTH AMERICA,

ERE the rising sunbeams break,

I the lofty mountain seek;

Watch the new light's earliest ray,
Chasing the dark clouds away.

Spirit, hear! when comes the night.
Silver moon, O lend thy light!
To my tent, oh speed my way,
Laden with the hunter's prey!

T. SWIFT.

A LOVE SONG,

FROM THE ROMAIC, OR MODERN GREEK.

АH! Love was never yet without

The pang, the agony, the doubt,

Which rend my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.

Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.

Who ne'er have loved and loved in vain
Can neither feel nor pity pain-
The cold repulse-the look askance—
The lightning of Love's angry glance.

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax or withering flower,
I feel my passion and thy power.

My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;

And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults—while mine is breaking.

Pour me the poison, fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now :
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know,
That joy is harbinger of woe.

LORD BYRON.

THE RENOVATION OF THE WORLD*.

FROM THE OLD ICELANDIC.

Now the spirit's plastic might,
Brooding o'er the formless deep,
O'er the dusk abysm of night,
Bids creation cease to sleep!

Instant from the riven main
Starts the renovated Earth;
Pine-clad mountain, shaded plain;
See, 'tis Nature's second birth!

Gods on Inda spread the board;
Such was the supreme decree:
Swell the strains in full accord,
Strains of holiest harmony!

'High the sparkling beverage pour;
Be the song with horror fraught:
Mark the consecrated hour

Lifts the soul to solemn thought.

'Odin first inspires the verse,
Gored by the relentless fang;
Æther felt the conflict fierce,

Dying groan, and parting pang.

'Where is now his vaunted might?
Where the terror of his eye?
Fled for aye from scenes of light:

Pour the sparkling beverage high.

*The gods (or dæmones) meet on the top of mount Inda, and sing this prophetic song of triumph.

'Lo! they fleet in radiant round, Years of plenty, years of joy: Sorrow's place no more is found, Cares that vex, or sweets that cloy. 'From the kindling teeming soil Ripen'd harvests wave unsown; Wherefore needs the peasants' toil? Nature works and works alone. 'Ask ye, whose the sceptred sway? 'Tis to lordly Balder given : Mark him there, in bright array, Stalking through the halls of heaven. 'Hoder holds united reign;

Latest times their strength shall prove, Monarchs of the bleak domain,

Know ye now what's done above?
Is it bless'd delusion's hour?

Rolls mine eye in frenzied trance?
Beams of glory round me shower;
Troops of radiant forms advance.
'Founded on that firm set rock,
Rising view the dome of gold,
Fix'd secure from wintry shock:
There the good, and there the bold.

'High in tracts of troubled air,

Justice waves her awful sword: Vice appall'd, with hideous stare, Shrinks, ere spoke the dooming word. In Nastronda's northern plain, Hark, the' invenom'd portals ope: Respite there is none of pain,

Cheerless all, without a hope.

'Dog-eyed Lust, Adultery foul,
Murder, red with many a stain,
At the fatal entrance scowl,

Bound in adamantine chain.

'Know ye what is done above?

Know ye now the deeds of night?'
They spoke; the feast of joy and love
Glow'd on Inda's glistering height.

MATHIAS.

SONG OF HARALD THE HARDY.

FROM THE OLD ICELANDIC.

My bark around Sicilia sail'd;

Then we were gallant, proud, and strong:
The winged ship by youths impell'd
Skimm'd (as we hoped) the waves along.
My prowess, tried in martial field,
Like fruit to maiden fair shall yield!

With golden ring in Russia's land
To me the virgin plights her hand.

Fierce was the fight on Trondheim's heath,
I saw her sons to battle move;
Though few, upon that field of death

Long, long our desperate warriors strove:
Young from my king, in battle slain,
I parted on that bloody plain.

With golden ring in Russia's land To me the virgin plights her hand. With vigorous arms the pump we plied, Sixteen (no more) my dauntless crew, And high and furious wax'd the tide ; O'er the deep bark its billows flew.