"TWAS midnight dark,
The seaman's bark,

Swift o'er the waters bore him,
When, through the night,
He spied a light

Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;

"She comes from the Indian shore, "And to-night shall be our prize,

"With her freight of golden ore: "Sail on! sail on!"

When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer;

But, though so fast

The waves he pass'd,

That boat seem'd never the nearer.

THE STRANGER.

COME list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground;

Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady,

Her language, though sweet, none could e'er understand;

But her features so sunn'd, and her eyelash so shady, Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

"Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping,

A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half

weeping,

Like music that Sorrow had steep'd in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung

us;

But, soon as the day-beams had gush'd from on high,

With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if stray'd from the sky.

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 labor to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly 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 'tis not sense, at least 'tis 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.

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

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 tow'r, The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains, And call'd his distant love with such sweet pow'r, That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away—1

To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly,
And sings along the length'ning waste of snow,
Gayly as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phoebus 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! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings,
While, from Ilissus' silv'ry 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 pow'r unchain'd;
And braided for the muse's brow

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

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

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms

The war-steed's wak'ning 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 valor'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 'twere like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these. Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;

Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before, Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.-" RANZ DES VACHES." 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 laboring storm, 'Tis 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, Bursts 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 conqu'ror's glory

SPANISH AIR.-"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal,
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right-
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardor quench'd, and honor faded? What muse shall mourn the deathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh, Erin, Thine!

(1) "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 hear in yonder tower, calls me with

great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.”—Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Paul Rycaut's

translation.