One form among that exiled band

Of parting sorrow gave no token,
Still was his breath, and cold his hand :
For Donal Kenny's heart was broken.
JOHN KEEGAN CASEY.

MARY DONN ASTHORE.*

IN valleys lone I pluck'd the flowers,
And wove them in her hair,
And never in the greenwood bowers
Was forest queen as fair.

She gave a silent glance at me,

With love-light flowing o'er ;

Oh! well that love's returned to thee,
My Mary Donn Asthore.

The sloethorn woos the poplar brown,
Where shines the sunlit hill,

Its blossoms waft an odour down
O'er heather, slope, and rill.
Her hand is as that blossom white,

I've strung my harp to many a lay,
With soothing magic sound,
I've sung to lords and ladies gay

Throughout old Ireland's ground;

Brown-haired treasure.

But now I find its tones are vain,
The ancient songs to pour ;
Thy name alone, that fills the strain,
My Mary Donn Asthore.

JOHN KEEGAN CASEY.

THE WREATH YOU WOVE.

THE wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Is fair-but oh! how fair,

If Pity's hand had stolen from Love
One leaf to mingle there!

If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems for dew-drops fall,

One faded leaf where Love had sighed
Were sweetly worth them all!

The wreath you wove, the wreath you wove
Our emblem well may be;

Its bloom is yours, but hopeless love

Must keep its tears for me!

THOMAS MOORE.

WOMAN.

AWAY, away—you're all the same,
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng!
Oh, by my soul, I burn with shame,

To think I've been your slave so long!

Slow to be warmed and quick to rove
From folly kind, and cunning loth;
Too cold for bliss, too weak for love,
Yet feigning all that's best in both.

OH! STILL REMEMBER ME.

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign,

More joy it gives to woman's breast To make ten frigid coxcombs vain,

Than one true, manly lover blest!

Away, away—your smile's a curse!
Oh, blot me from the race of men,
Kind pitying Heaven! by death or worse,
Before I love such things again.

THOMAS MOORE.

OH! STILL REMEMBER ME.

Go where glory waits thee,

But while fame elates thee,
Oh, still remember me !
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh, then remember me !
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be ;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,

Oh, then remember me!

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh, then remember me !
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,

Oh, thus remember me !

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Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh, then remember me!

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh, then remember me !
And, at night, when gazing,
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh, still remember me!
Then, should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee,
Strains I used to sing thee—
Oh, then remember me !

THOMAS MOORE.

CONSTANCY.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away;

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

INCONSTANCY.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear.
No; the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

THOMAS MOORE.

INCONSTANCY.

'Tis sweet to think, that where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we are far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near!
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing

It can twine in itself, and make closely its own; Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there ; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

"Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.

Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

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They are both of them bright, but they're changeable

too,

And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue!