MY MARY.

LOVE, my Mary, dwells with thee,
On thy cheek his bed I see;

No, that cheek is pale with care,
Love can find no roses there.

'Tis not on the cheek of rose
Love can find the best repose;
In my heart his home thou 'lt see,
There he lives, and lives for thee!
Love, my Mary, ne'er can roam,
While he makes that eye his home;
No, the eye with sorrow dim
Ne'er can be a home for him.

Yet, 'tis not in beaming eyes
Love for ever warmest lies;
In my heart his home thou 'lt see,
Here he lives, and lives for thee !

NOW LET THE WARRIOR.

Now let the warrior wave his sword afar,
For the men of the East this day shall bleed,

And the sun shall blush with war.

Victory sits on the Christian's helm,

To guide her holy band;

The Knight of the Cross this day shall whelm
The men of the Pagan land.

Oh, blest who in the battle dies!
God will enshrine him in the skies!

LIGHT SOUNDS THE HARP.

LIGHT Sounds the harp when the combat is over, When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

But when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns;

High flames the sword in his hand once more:
The clang of mingling arms

Is then the sound that charms,

And brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
Oh, then comes the harp, when the combat is over,
When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom;
When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,
And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But when the battle came,

The hero's eye breathed flame :
Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;
While, to his wakening ear,

No other sounds were dear

But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung.
But then came the light harp when danger was ended,
And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,

And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

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 regard 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 untelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." 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.

To

MELOLOGUE.

INTRODUCTORY MUSIC.

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 reindeer fly,
And sings along the length'ning waste of snow
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow;
O 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! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While from Ilissus' 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,