She woo'd me to temples, while thou layest hid in caves, They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail- ON MUSIC. WHEN through life unblest we rove, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, In faded eyes that long have wept. Like the gale that sighs along Is the grateful breath of song That once was heard in happier hours; Though the flowers have sunk in death; Music! oh, how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they; Oh! 'tis only Music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray: IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.2 Ir is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, 'Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.'-St. Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17. These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira, Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute, He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray, A light to the last, And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art, |