OH have you not heard of the harp that lay
This morning across the pilgrim's way--
The wayward youth that loved to wander
By twilight lone up the mountain yonder?
How that wild harp came there not the wisest
can know,
It lay silent and lone on the mountain's brow;
The eagle's down on the strings that lay
Proved he there had awaited the dawning ray;
But no track could be seen, not a footstep was
Save the course of the hare o'er the strings in fear,
And ah! no minstrel is here to be seen
On our mountain's brow, or our valleys green;
And if there were, he had missed full soon
His wild companion so sweet and boon.--
While the youth stood gazing on aghast,
The wind it rose strong, and the wind it rose
fast,
Quick on the harp it came swinging, swinging—
Then away through the strings it went singing,
Till a peal there arose so lofty and loud,
That the eagle hung breathless upon his cloud;
And away through the strings the wind it went
sweeping,
Till the spirit awoke, that among them was sleeping
It awoke, it awoke :
It spoke, it spoke
"I am the spirit of Erin's might,
That brightened in peace, and that nerved her
The spirit that lives in the blast of the mountain,
And tunes her voice to the roll of the fountain—
The spirit of giddy and frantic gladness-
The spirit of most heart-rending sadness—
The spirit of maidens weeping on
Wildly, tenderly—
The spirit of heroes thundering on
Gloriously, gloriously ;-
And though my voice is seldom heard,
Now another's song's preferred,
I tell thee, stranger, I have sung
Where Tara's hundred harps have rung-
And I have rode by Brien's side,
Rolling back the Danish tide-
And know each echo long and slow
Of still-romantic Glendalough ;
Though now my song but seldom thrills,
Lately a stranger awakened me;
And Genius came from Scotland's hills,
A pilgrim for my minstrelsy.-
But come more faintly blows the gale,
And my voice begins to fail-
Pilgrim, take this simple lyre-
And yet it holds a nation's fire--
Take it, while with me 'tis swelling,
To your stately lowland dwelling—
There she dwells-my Erin's maid-
In her charming native shade;
I have placed my stamp upon her,
Erin's radiant brow of honour;
Spirits lambent-heart that's glowing-
Mind that's rich, and soul o'erflowing;
She moves with her bounding mountain-grace,
And the light of her heart is in her face :
Tell the maid-I claim her mine-
For Erin it is hers to shine;
And, that she still increase her store
Of intellect and fancy's lore,
That I demand from her a mind
Solid, brilliant, strong, refined;
And that she prize a patriot's fire,
Beyond what avarice can desire;
And she must pour a patriot's song
Her romantic hills along."-
Her name is Constance--
Constance-Faintly died
The blast upon the mountain side,
Nor scarcely o'er the clouds it brushed;
And now the murmuring sound is hushed,—
Yet sweetly, sweetly, Constance rung
On the faltering spirit's tongue-
Speak again, the youth, he cried,—
But no faltering sprite replied;
Wild harp, wild harp,
To Constance I will take thee-
Wild harp, wild harp,
She perhaps will wake thee.
ANGELS of glory! came she not from you?
Are there not patriots in the heaven of heavens?
And hath not every seraph some dear spot-
Throughout th' expanse of worlds some favourite
home-
On which he fixes with domestic fondness?
Doth not e'en Michael on his seat of fire,
Close to the footstool of the throne of God,
Rest on his harp awhile, and from the face
And burning glories of the Deity
Loosen his riveted and raptured gaze,
To bend one bright, one transient downward glance,
One patriot look upon his native star?
Or do I err?—and is your bliss complete,
Without one spot to claim your warmer smile, And e'en an angel's partiality?
And is that passion, which we deem divine, Which makes the timid brave, the brave resist
"Makes men seem heroes,-heroes, demigods— A poor, mere mortal feeling?—No! 'tis false ! The Deity himself proves it divine ;
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