If in the race we are dwtsed in an ATE ! They won base Jeht beras he superst be- OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME. Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name! And the thorns of thy stem are not like them With which hearts wound each other: So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, And I'll ne'er again sigh to another. POOR WOUNDED HEART! PALE BROKEN FLOWER! PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath In vain the sun-beams seek To warm that faded cheek! The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee, So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her; Like sun-beams round her fall The only smile that could from death awaken her, THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove, Saying, Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, For the hearts of this world are hollow, And 't is sweet, when all their witcheries pall, So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew « Sweet tears,>> I shall say (as I brush them away), « At least there's no art in this weeping.» Although thou shouldst die to-morrow, 'T will not be from pain or sorrow, THE EAST INDIAN. COME May, with all thy flowers, Thy fragrant breath at morn: When May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me. From Eastern Isles she 's winging The bright sun's orient ray: Through gardens always bright. Then now, oh May! be sweeter Than e'er thou 'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore. SHINE OUT, STARS! SHINE out, Stars! let Heaven assemble And would Love, too, bring his sweetness, Oh, what glory, what completeness, Then would crown this bright May eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray. Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this eve of May. THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA. On the joys of our evening posada, Sit and sing the last sunshine away! So blithe, that even the slumbers Which hung around us seem gone, Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on. TELL HER, CH TELL HER. TILLS sh sell ver he ute the oft long Reneath the green arvone, s will (en? here; Morin e quer raund „r ara wghing, But not a inft whimper replies to their primer. Tall new sh silver the tree hat ʼn paing, So while away from that arbour fortaken. The maiden a wandering, ah, let her se Tre an fhe infe that no ugh ng tan waxeT, And blooming for ever anchanged as the tree! NIGHTS OF MUSIC. Nours of munie, nights of Coming Lost too soon, remember' 4 long, When we went by moon-light roeing, Hearts all love and lips ali song When this faithfai lote recorded All my spirit felt to thee, And that smile the song rewarded, Worth whole years of fame to me! Nights of song and nights of splendour, Filld with joys too sweet to lastJoys that, like your star-light tender, While they shone, no shadow cast: SONG I ve roam & through many a weary round, While glory sighs for other spheres, And think the home which love endears The needle thus too rudely moved, Miscellaneous Poems. A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them. With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman senate for using the outlandish term monopoly.» But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, «if 't is not sense, at least 't is Greek.» To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that, by « Melologue,» I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine. T. M. THERE breathes a language, known and felt That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away ;' The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly, Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow, Is still resistless, still the same; To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, Of human passion rise and fall for thee! Greek Air. List! 't is a Grecian maid that sings, While, from llyssus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return! When Athens nursed her olive-bough, With hands by tyrant power unchain'd, A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd. Where coward feet now faintly falter ; Flourish of Trumpet. Hark! 't is the sound that charms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; See! from his native hills afar Oh Music! here, even here, A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you bear in youder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may he his wife, and be my husband.' - Garcilasso de la Véga, in Sir Paul Rycant's translation. But, wake the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm, T is then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form, And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys! Nor, Music! through thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony, Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man, awaking From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty! Spanish Chorus. Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Like morning's music on the air! By brave Gerona's deathful story, Spanish Air-« Ya Desperto.» But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the book of Europe's rightWhat song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remember'd well, Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded ? LINES On the Death of Mr Perceval. In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot in that hour how the statesman had err'd, And wept, for the husband, the father, and friend. them the face #wwe Times wali When Tria w.. be heard ant these xets of a day Be Forgotten is focis, se rememiar las worse Tartut de fate of that h thegifted man, Whose m od was an essence, compounded with art From the nest and best of all other men's powers— Who ruled like a wizard, the world of the heart, And could raŭ up its sunshine, or bring down its showers: < Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fy's light, « Whose eloquence-brightning whatever it tried, In the woods of the North there are insects that prey LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD ENTERED NAPLES. Carbone Notati: AY-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are— Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains! On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore ! Let their fate be a mock-word-let men of all lands Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls! 1 Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there were found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them.-History of Poland. |