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Yet still thy features wore that light,

Which Heets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that which charm'd all other eyes

Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary!
If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary !
Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, Mary !!

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BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.?
By that Lake whose gloomy shore But nor earth nor heaven is free
Skylark never warbles o'er, 3

From her power, if fond she be : Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Even now, while calm he sleeps, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. Here, at least,' he calmly said,

Fearless she had track'd his feet
Woman ne'er shall find my bed.'
Ah! the good Saint little knew

To this rocky, wild retreat ;
What that wily sex can do.

And, when morning met his view,

Her mild glances met it too. 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-- Ah! your Saints have cruel hearts ! Eyes of most unholy blue !

Sternly from his bed he starts,
She had loved him well and long, And, with rude, repulsive shock,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;

Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave
East or west, where'er he turn'd,

Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! Still her eyes before him burn'd.

Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late)

Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. On the bold cliff's bosom cast,

When he said, 'Heaven rest her soul !" Tranquil now he sleeps at last; Round the Lake light music stole; Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er And her ghost was seen to glide, Woman's smile can haunt him there. Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

'I have here made a feeble effort to imitate rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, 'Heu! and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 3 There are many other curious traditions conmeminisse!"

cerning this lake, which may be found in Giral2 This ballad is founded upon one of the many dus, Colgan, &c, stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking;-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his bove, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,

From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT.
Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs,
Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower,

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bathed the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods
Distill'd by the rainbow decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid !
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me ;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

!

There's yet a world where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; fi death that world's bright opening be,

Oh! who would live a slave in this ?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.
'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near !!
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine in itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there ;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue !
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.”
THROUGII grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay ;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd;
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honour'd, whilst thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,

Thy crown was of briers, wbile gold her brows adorn'd;
1 I believe it is Marmontel who says, 'Quand themselves, and to remind them that Democritus
on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que was not the worse physiologist for having play-
l'on a? There

are so many matter-of-fact people fully contended that snow was black; nor Eraswho take such jeux d'esprit as this

defence of in- mus in any degree the less wise for having constancy to be the actual and genuine senti. written an ingenious encomium of folly, ments of him who writes them, that they compel Meaning allegorically the ancient church of one in self-defence, to be as matter of fact as Ireland,

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 !

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

Iu 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 iv 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 goothe, and not betray :

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.2

It 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. 2 These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira

Tis the tear, through many a long day wepti,

'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded ; "Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,

When all lighter griefs have faded.
Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume

Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow å sweetening bloom

From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea ;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till Heaven looked with pity ov true love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rosc fair-still ber cheeks smiled the same
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords, uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known.
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay,
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

OH ! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life from morn till night

Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream :
No, there's nothing

half so sweet in life
As love's young

dream.

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