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If in the race we are dwtsed in an ATE

! They won base Jeht beras he superst be-
Happer must be the Lave seen. Ime,
And that w... be my case was thee"
No matter where I may now be a rover.
No matter how many bez teves ❘ see;
Should Venna seifreme and ask me to leve her,
I'd tell her I could pri—my weart is with thee!
There let it Le grown fender and fender-
And should Dime Fortune turn truant to me,
Why, let her go-1're a treasure beyond her.
As long as my heart's out at interest with thee!

OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.
On! call it by some better name,
For Friendship is too cold,
And Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon,-
Oh! call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay,
Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are,
Yet human still as they:

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!

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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,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death!

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her;
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fall

The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;

Saying, Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
I'll worship each bud that thou bearest.

For the hearts of this world are hollow,
And fickle the smiles we follow;

And 't is sweet, when all their witcheries pall,
To have a pure love to fly to:

So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
And the only one now I shall sigh to.>>

When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,

« 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 sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,

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
Through wat'ry wilds her way,
And on her cheek is bringing

The bright sun's orient ray:
Oh! come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm-
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.
The fields where she was straying
Are blest with endless light,
With zephyrs always playing

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
Round us every festal
ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
And the odours shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad through sea and air.

And would Love, too, bring his sweetness,
With our other joys to weave,

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,
When, resting at close of the day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

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.

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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,
Reale he green or war the place sig se
Lovely as meer je si waking and seaming,
And ant air ght leatlet as filin from it yet.

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!

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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,
I've wanderd east and west;
Pleasure in every chime I ve found,
But sought in vain for rest.

While glory sighs for other spheres,
I feel that one's too wide,

And think the home which love endears
Worth all the world beside.

The needle thus too rudely moved,
Wanders unconscious where;
Till having found the place it loved,
It, trembling, settles there.

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.

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THERE breathes a language, known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,

That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,
Where oft, of old, on some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,
And call'd his distant love with such sweet power,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,

Not worlds could keep her from his arms away ;'
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where, beneath a sunless sky,

The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow,
Oh Music! thy celestial claim

Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides

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,
And braided for the muses' brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd.
When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter ;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!

Flourish of Trumpet.

Hark! 't is the sound that charms
The war-steed's wakening ears!—
Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, though her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound!

See! from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights;
A conqueror oft-a hero never-
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 't were like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

Oh Music! here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, wild career,

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.

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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,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,

Like morning's music on the air!
And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory!

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 ?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin! thine!

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.

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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,
The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,
The seator-dramatist—m astrei—#bo ran
Through each mode of the lyre, and was mister of

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,
Play d round every subject, and shome as it play'd—
Whose wit, in the combat, as g-nue as brig'i,
Neer carried a heart-stain away on its blade;—

« Whose eloquence-brightning whatever it tried,
Whether reason or fancy, the ay or the grave—
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!»
Yes-such was the man, and so wretched his fate;-
And thas, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect it will return to refresh them at eve!

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ;
Oh, Genius thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die!

LINES

WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD ENTERED NAPLES.

Carbone Notati:

AY-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are—
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins,

Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains!

On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

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.

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