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Here to the blade I bare

This faithful heart;

Wound deep-thou'lt find that there, In every pulse thou art.

Yes from thee I'll bear it all;

If ruin be

The doom that o'er this heart must fall, "Twere sweet from thee.

GUESS, GUESS.

I LOVE a maid, a mystic maid,

Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade, And beautiful in both is she. Her shape in dreams I oft behold,

And oft she whispers in my ear Such words as when to others told,

Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;Then guess, guess, who she, The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,

Come o'er me in my darkest ways; And feel as if her voice, even now, Were echoing far off my lays. There is no scene of joy or wo

But she doth gild with influence bright; And shed o'er all so rich a glow,

As makes even tears seem full of light;

Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

ASK NOT IF STILL I LOVE.

Ask not if still I love,

Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove

How near and dear I hold thee.

If, where the brightest shine,

To see no form but thine,

To feel that earth can show

No bliss above thee,

If this be love, then know

That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour

That thou canst know affection's power.

No, try its strength in grief or pain; Attempt, as now, its bonds to sever, Thou'lt find true love's a chain That binds for ever!

DEAR? YES.

DEAR? yes, though mine no more,
Even this but makes thee dearer;
And love, since hope is o'er,
But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me,
The same thy charm must be;
New loves may come to weave
Their witchery o'er thee,
Yet still, though false, believe

That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee.
Thinkst thou that aught but death could end
A tie not falsehood's self can rend?
No, when alone, far off I die,

No more to see, no more caress thee, Even then, my life's last sigh

Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.

UNBIND THEE, LOVE.

UNBIND thee, love, unbind thee, love, From those dark ties unbind thee; Though fairest hand the chain hath wove Too long its links have twined thee. Away from earth!-thy wings were made In yon mid sky to hover,

With earth beneath their dove-like shade, And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayest from this minute's joy
Wake to eternal weeping.

Oh, think, this world is not for thee;

Though hard its links to sever;

Though sweet and bright and dear they be, Break, or thou'rt lost for ever.

THE RUSSIAN LOVER. FLEETLY o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bower; Swift our sledge as lightning goes,

Nor shall stop till morning's hour. Bright, my steed, the northern star

Lights us from yon jewelled skies; But, to greet us, brighter far,

Morn shall bring my lady's eyes. Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,

Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that's ours,

In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams

From the frosty heavens around,

Love himself the keener beams

When with snows of coyness crowned. Fleet then on, my merry steed,

Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale ;What can match a lover's speed? See, 'tis daylight, breaking pale! Brightly hath the northern star

Lit us from yon radiant skies; But, behold, how brighter far Yonder shine my lady's eyes!

BRIGHT MOON.

BRIGHT moon, that high in heaven art shining, All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night

Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light:By all the bliss thy beam discovers,

By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
Behold, this night, beneath thy ling'ring ray-

I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given

Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,

Ere thou, sweet moon, thy bashful crescent hide¡

Let Love but in this bower be lighted,

Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.

LONG YEARS HAVE PASSED.

LONG years have passed, old friend, since we
First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropped away;-
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we're met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who're left us yet.

Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
And some hang white and chill;
While some,

like flowers 'mid Autumn's snow,

Retain youth's color still.

And so, in our hearts, though one by one,

Youth's sunny hopes have set,

Thank Heaven, not all their light is gone→

We've some to cheer us yet.

Then here's to thee, old friend, and long

May thou and I thus meet,

To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,

Let's never, old friend, forget,
Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet.

WHEN LOVE, WHO RULED.
WHEN Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er
His rosy mother's isles of light,
Was cruising off the Paphian shore,

A sail at sunset hove in sight.
"A chase, a chase! my Cupids all,"
Said Love, the little Admiral.
Aloft the winged sailors sprung,

And, swarining up the mast like bees.
The snow-white sails expanding flung,
Like broad magnolias to the breeze.
"Yo ho, yo ho, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

The chase was o'er-the bark was caught,
The winged crew her freight explored;
And found 'twas just as Love had thought,
For all was contraband aboard.
"A prize! a prize! my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

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Safe stowed in many a package there,
And labelled slyly o'er, as Glass,"
Were lots of all th' illegal ware,

Love's Custom-House forbids to pass. "O'erhaul, o'erhaul, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False curls they found, of every hue,
With rosy blushes, ready made;
And teeth of ivory, good as new,

For veterans in the smiling trade. "Ho, ho, ho, ho, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

Mock sighs, too-kept in bags for use,

Like breezes bought of Lapland seersLay ready here to be let loose,

When wanted, in young spinsters' ears. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, my Cupids all," Said Love, the little Admiral.

False papers next on board were found, Sham invoices of flames and darts, Professedly for Paphos bound,

But meant for Hymen's gollen marts. "For shame, for shame, my Cupids all !" Said Love, the little Admiral.

Nay, still to every fraud awake,

Those pirates all Love's signals knew, And hoisted oft his flag, to make

Rich wards and heiresses bring-to." "A foe, a foe, my Cupids all!” Cried Love, the little Admiral.

"This must not be," the boy exclaims,
"In vain I rule the Paphian seas,

If Love's and Beauty's sovereign names
Are lent to cover frauds like these.
Prepare, prepare, my Cupids all!"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

Each Cupid stood with lighted match-
A broadside struck the smuggling foe,
And swept the whole unhallowed batch
Of falsehood to the depths below.
"Huzza! huzza! my Cupids all !"
Said Love, the little Admiral.

STILL THOU FLIEST. ALL thou fliest, and still I woo thee, Lovely phantom-all in vain; Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee, Fleeting ever, thou mockst their pain. Such doom, of old, that youth betided, Who wooed, he thought, some angel's charms, But found a cloud that from him glided

As thou dost from these outstretched arms. Scarce I've said, "How fair thou shinest," Ere thy light hath vanished by;

And 'tis when thou lookst divinest

Thou art still more sure to fly.

TO BRING-To, to check the course of a ship."-FALCONER.

Even as the lightning, that, dividing

The clouds of night, saith, "Look on me," Then flits again, its splendor hidingEven such the glimpse I catch of thee.

THEN FIRST FROM LOVE.
THEN first from Love, in Nature's bowers,
Did Painting learn her fairy skill,
And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,
To picture woman lovelier still.
For vain was every radiant hue,
Till Passion lent a soul to art,
And taught the painter, ere he drew,
To fix the model in his heart.
Thus smooth his toil awhile went on,
Till, lo, one touch his art defies;
The brow, the lip, the blushes shone,

But who could dare to paint those eyes? 'Twas all in vain the painter strove; So turning to that boy divine, "Here take," he said, "the pencil, Love, No hand should paint such eyes, but thine.”

HUSH, SWEET LUTE.

HUSH, Swee Lute, thy songs remind me
Of past joys, now turned to pain;
Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,
But whose burning marks remain.
In each tone, some echo falleth
On my ear of joys gone by;
Ev'ry note some dream recalleth

Of bright hopes but born to die.

Yet, sweet Lute, though pain it bring me,
Once more let thy numbers thrill;
Though death were in the strain they sing me,
I must woo its anguish still.

Since no time can e'er recover

Love's sweet light when once 'tis setBetter to weep such pleasures over, Than smile o'er any left us yet.

DREAMING FOR EVER.
DREAMING for ever, vainly dreaming,
Life to the last pursues its flight;
Day hath its visions fairly beaming,
But false as those of night.
The one illusion, the other real,

But both the same brief dreams at last;
And when we grasp the bliss ideal,
Soon as it shines, 'tis past.

Here, then, by this dim lake reposing,

Calmly I'll watch, while light and loom Flit o'er its face till night is closingEmblem of life's short doom!

But though, by turns, thus dark and shining, 'Tis still unlike man's changeful day, Whose light returns not, once declining, Whose cloud, once come, will stay.

THOUGH LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

A SONG OF THE ALPS.

THOUGH lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Though like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tell
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oft'nest steal
Those sadd'ning thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay-
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface, feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears-
And passion's power can never lend the slow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of wo

Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from locks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.

RICH and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

So lone and lovely through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,

As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm:
For though they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more !"

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle;
And biest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea;
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE,

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

TAKE back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still;
Some hand, more calm and sage,
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come, as pure as light,
Pure as even you require:
But, oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book:
Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fir
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Tow'rd you and home;
Fancy may trace some line,
Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,
Pure, calm, and sweet.

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religien, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent adminis tistion, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes jewels"-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i., book x.

And as, o'er ocean far,
Seamen their records keep,
Led by some hidden star

Through the cold deep;
So may the words I write

Tell through what storms I strayYou still the unseen light, Guiding my way.

THE LEGACY.

WHEN in death I shall calmly recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door,

Where weary travellers love to call. Then, if some bard, who roams forsaken. Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing, To grace your revel, when I'm at rest; Never-oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest. But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover,

And hallow each drop that foams for him.

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. WE may roam through this world, like a child at a feast Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle,

For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Through this world, whether eastward or westward you

roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery placed within call;
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the garden's but carelessly watched after all.
Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence,
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells;
Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,
Nor charms us least when it most repels.

Then emember, wherever your goblet is crowned,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you

roam,

When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.
In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,

Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by.
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,
Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,
Through billows of wo, and beams of joy.

The same as he looked when he left the shore.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you

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HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

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How oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fallen upon gloomy days!*
Star after star decays,

Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er the land, is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quenched are our beacon lightsThou, of the Hundred Fights!t Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung! Both mute-but long as valor shineth, Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they lived and died.

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COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

OME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; This moment's a flower too fair and brief,

To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

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I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude o the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

+ This designation, which has been before applied to Lord NelFon, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Guive, the Dard of O'Niel. which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. "Con, of the Hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy irtories."

Fox, omanorum ultimus."

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.•

SILENT, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?
When will Heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will Heaven, its sweet bell ring,
Call my spirit to the fields above?

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.
LET Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,†
Which he won from her proud invader,
When her kings, with standard of green unfurled,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strafs,
When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining;
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover.[]

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG
CHARMS.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,

To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict up an audience at once: the reader must therefore be content to learn, ta a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernat ural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the massbell was to be the signal of her release. I found this fanciful fie tion among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of eland, the late Countess of Moira.

+"This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the mos arch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Mal achi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered suc cessively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."-Warner's Pastory of Ireland, vol. i., book ix.

"Military orders of knights were very early established m Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster. called Curaidhe na Croiobhe rusdh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Crotob ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier."-O'Ha loran's Introduction, &c., part i., chap. 5.

It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, ike the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquæ illius turres ecclesiasticas, qua more patria arcta sunt et alta, necnon et rotundæ, sub undis manifesti sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus, reique causal admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt.-Topogr. Hib, dist. 2... 9

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

SUBLIME was the warning that Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let nct this spirit have rest,

Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west-
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot

While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain !
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!
And oh may his tomb want a tier and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,

For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain! Ye Blakes and O'Donneis, whose fathers resigned The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which at home they had sighed for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! God prosper the cause!-oh, it can not but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die! The finger of glory shall point where they lie; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave` Beneath Shainrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain !

ERIN, OH ERIN.

LIKE the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane, And burned through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,

Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears
Of a long right of bondage, thy spirit appears.
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.f
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.

The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions: "Apud Kildariam occurrit ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus."-Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern., dist. 2. c. 34.

↑ Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the Lily, has applied this image to a still more important object.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.* OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame, He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart. But alas for his country!-her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;

Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them through dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget, what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll
feel!

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored;
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not e'en in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep.

ILL OMENS.

WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly,|| fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brushed him-he fell, alas! never to rise.
"Ah! such," said the girl," is the pride of our faces,
For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

She culled some, and kissed off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too: But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,

Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost: "Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning),

"That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards. whom Spenser so severely and perhaps truly describes in his "State of Ireland," and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue. † It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Ýr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for four hundred years, was now become the land of concord."-Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison. See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, Ev poprov. κλάδι το ξίφος popnow"I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius, and Aristogiton," &c.

An emblem of the soul.

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