I looked for the lamp which, she told

me,

Should shine, when her Pilgrim re.

turned;

But, tho' darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber 't was lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead;

Ah, would it were death, and death only!

But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss;

While the hand, that had waked it so often,

Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,

When Breffni's good sword would have sought

That man, thro' a million of foemen, Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!

While now-oh degenerate daughter

Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame! And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already, the curse is upon her,

And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide, to dishonor,

And tyrants they long will remain. But onward! - the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is Virtue and Erin,

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

OH! had we some bright little isle of

our own,

In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,

Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,

And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers;

jured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to

Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,

But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw

Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.

his capital of Ferns." The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

The bee thro' many a garden roves, And hums his lay of courtship o'er, But when he finds the flower he loves, He settles there, and hums no more. Then doubt me not- the season Is o'er, when Folly kept me free, And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.1 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blest her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,

And love was the light of their lowly

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,2
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory —
Has Hope been that bird to thee?

1 Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.

2 "The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," etc.-"Arabian Nights."

On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,

That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither

Each feeling that once was dear: Come, child of misfortune, come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full choir of heaven is
near,

Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever
waken

To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 't was like the stealing

Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell

Each secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell. 'T was whispered balm- 't was sunshine spoken!

I'd live years of grief and pain To have my long sleep of sorrow broken By such benign, blessed sounds again.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee, And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, tho' false to all beside, From me thou couldst not wander. But go, deceiver! go,

The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

"The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known;

"Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

"Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.

"At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,

"Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,

"And, bright o'er the flood "Of her tears and her blood, "Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOO

ING.

THE time I 've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing

The light, that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorned the lore she brought me,
My only books

Were woman's looks,
And folly 's all they 've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the Sprite,1
Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that 's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray
Was turned away,

O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, vain, alas! the endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

WHERE IS THE SLAVE. OH, where's the slave so lowly, Condemned to chains unholy, Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decayed it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouched and blowing,
Than that, whose braid
Is plucked to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we 've tried
Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin, - farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

1 This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is