THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r,
I could harm what I love, -as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No-beaming with light as those young features are
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that check- 't is the soul dawning clear
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear;
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

ECIO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar

The songs repeat.

"T is when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then, —

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

Tao' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I sec,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall stili be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the focs we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreaths,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

AS VANQUISH'D ERIN

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river.
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had fropp'd his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, .66 ye venom'd darts,
Where mortal eye may shun you;
Lie hid - the stain of manly hearts,

That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain, -
As Time too well hath taught her -
Each year the Fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;

And brings, triumphant, from beneath

His shafts of desolation,

And sends them, wing'd with worse than death, Through all her madd'ning nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,

Ev'n now,

beside that river

Unwearied still the Fiend returns,

And stored is still his quiver.

"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"

She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,

The Demon answer, "Never"'

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain; Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again.

Weep on - perhaps in after days,

They'll learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruin'd Isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,

They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

""Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate Your web of discord wove;

And while your tyrants join'd in hate,

You never join'd in love.

But hearts fell off that ought to twine,

And man profaned what God had given. Till some were heard to curse the shrine Where others knelt to heaven!"

28

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness
That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 't is thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,

A youth, whose moments had calinly flown,
Till spells came o’er him, and, day and night,

He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite.