Where shadows veil the mountain height,
And fiends of darkness murmur low,
On every sobbing breeze of night
Is heard the maniac's plaint of woe.
Alas, poor Ella !

Fond maid, when from these ills severe
Death steals thee to his lonely bower,
Pity shall drop her angel tear,

And twine thy grave with many a flower.
The story of thy hapless doom

Shall deck the rustic poet's lay;

And as they pass thy simple tomb,

The village hinds shall weeping say,

Alas, poor Ella!

THE PILGRIM.

HOLY be the pilgrim's sleep,

From the dreams of terror free ; And may all who wake to weep

Rest to-night as sweet as he.

"Hark! hark, did I hear a vesper swell? It is, my love, some pilgrim's prayer!"

"No, no, 'tis but the convent hell,

That tolled upon the midnight air!"

"Now, now again, the voice I hear,
Some holy man is wandering near:

O pilgrim, where hast thou been roaming?
Dark is the way, and midnight's coming!"
"Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,
To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain !"

"And, pilgrim, say where art thou going?
Dark is the way, the winds are blowing!"
"Weary with wandering, weak, I falter,
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar!"
Strew then, oh strew his bed of rushes,
Here he shall rest till morning blushes!

(Dirge heard from the convent within.) Peace to them whose days are done, Death their eyelids closing; Hark! the burial rite's begun, 'Tis time for our reposing.

(Pilgrim throwing off his disguise.) "Here, then, my pilgrim's course is o'er."

""Tis my master, 'tis my master, Welcome! welcome home once more!"

WILT THOU SAY FAREWELL, LOVE?
"WILT thou say farewell, love,
And from Zelinda part?
Zelinda's tears will tell, love,
The anguish of her heart."

"I'll still be thine, and thou'lt be mine,
I'll love thee though we sever;
Oh! say, can I e'er cease to sigh,
Or cease to love?-oh never."

"Wilt thou think of me, love,
When thou art far away?"
"Oh! I'll think of thee, love,
Never, never stray!"

"Let not other wiles, love,
Thy ardent heart betray;
Remember Zelinda's smile, love,
Zelinda, far away!"

CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT.

CEASE, oh cease to tempt

My tender heart to love,

It never, never can

So wild a flame approve.

All its joys and pains

To others I resign;

But be the vacant heart,

The careless bosom, mine.

Say, oh say no more,

That lovers' pains are sweet;

I never, never can

Believe the fond deceit.

Weeping day and night,

Consuming life in sighs;

This is the lover's lot,

And this I ne'er could prize.

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.

Joys that pass away like this,
Alas! are purchased dear,

If every beam of bliss

Is followed by a tear.

Fare thee well! oh fare thee well!

Soon, too soon, thou hast broke the spell; Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless artCould break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart!

Once when truth was in those eyes.
How beautiful they shone;
But now that lustre flies,

For truth, alas, is gone!

Fare thee well! oh fare thee well!
How I've loved my hate shall tell.
Oh how lorn, how lost, would prove
Thy wretched victim's fate,

If, when deceived in love,

He could not fly to hate!

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 lulled 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 lulled the War-God to rest;
When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

PREFATORY LETTER ON MUSIC.

IT has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of defiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency-a burst of turbulence dying away into softness-the sorrows of one moment lost in the levity of the next-and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness which is naturally produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off or forget the wrongs which lie upon it:-such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult to listen to without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems peculiarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose* marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit for ever the land of their birth, (like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated ;) and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile, mingling regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honours that await him abroad-such honours as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valour of Irish Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favour of the French, and extorted from

There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxili aries in The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland under Montrose, (1660.) Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success to this small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell.