She woo'd me to temples, while thou layest hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale,
They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains;
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains-
Oh! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdue-
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!1

ON MUSIC.

WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love

In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept!
Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song

That once was heard in happier hours;
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,

Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music! oh, how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,

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,
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore 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,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffered too much to forget:
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray,
Each fragment will cast

A light to the last,

And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay;
A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.