When Hope foretels the brightest, best, And our own heads the most of any- Then you and I are sages, Fanny. HERE, TAKE MY HEART. HERE, take my heart, 't will be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee? If, in the race we are destined to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest beHappier still must be they who have none, love, And that will be my case when mine is with thee! No matter where I may now be a rover, No matter how many bright eyes I see; Should Venus' self come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I could not-my heart is with thee! There let it lic, growing fonder and fonder And should Dame Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go-I 've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart 's out at interest with thee! OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME. On call it by some better name, Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay, Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human still as they: And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, POOR WOUNDED HEART! POOR wounded heart! Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Than that long, deadly course of aching, This life has been to thee Poor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell! PALE BROKEN FLOWER! PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee' Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath In vain the sun-beams seek To warm that faded cheek! The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over the Now are but tears, to weep thy early death! So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her; Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou. In vain the smiles of all Like sun-beams round her fallThe only smile that could from death awaken her. That smile, alas! is gone to others now. THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove, For the hearts of this world are hollow, Miscellaneous Poems. A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. 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 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 't is not sense, at least 't is 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 Athalic of Racine. THERE breathes a language, known and felt From those meridian plains, T. M. Where oft, of old, on some high tower, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;1 The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, Of vernal Phobus burn'd upon his brow. Is still resistless, still the same; 1. A certain Spaniard, one night bae, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, ani 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, Gurcilesso de la Véga, a Sir Paul Rycaut's transJapon. 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! 't is a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilyssus' silvery springs, A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd. Where coward feet now faintly falter; Flourish of Trumpet. Hark! t is the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh Music! here, even here, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power. Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks; The rosy children whom he left behind, With speaking tears, that ask him why Swiss Air-« Ranz des Faches.» Spanish Air-« Ya Desperto.» But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded? LINES On the Death of Mr P-r-v-l. In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot in that hour how the statesman had err'd, And wept, for the husband, the father and friend. Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won, And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, And, though wrong'd by him living, bewail'd him when dead. Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude, "T is to wish he had chosen some lowlier stateHad known what he was, and, content to be'good, Had ne'er, for our ruin, aspired to be great. So, left through their own little orbit to move, LINES On the Death of Sh-r-d-n. Principibus placuisse viris.--HOR. YES, grief will have way—but the fast-falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those Who could bask in that spirit's meridian career, Whose vanity flew round him only while fed By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave; Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the ghole of the East, comes to feed at his grave! Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow How proud they can press to the funeral array row: How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow! And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream, cast: No, not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee Would I suffer what-even in the heart that thou hast— And which found all his wants at an end, was return'd!! « Was this, then, the fate»-future ages will say, When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse Was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man, The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall, The orator-dramatist-minstrel,-who ran Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all! « Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art From the finest and best of all other men's powersWho ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers! « Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd— Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade; «Whose eloquence-bright'ning whatever it tried, 1 The sum was two hundred pounds-offered when Sh-r-d-n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends. That then-oh disgrace upon manhood! even then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death! It is strange-it is dreadful ;—shout, tyranny, shout, Through your dungeons and palaces, « Freedom is o'er!»> If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more. For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS. A DREAM. It would be impossible for His Royal Highness to disengage bis person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it.. Lord CASTLEREAGH's Speech upon. Colonai M'Manos's Appointment. LAST night I toss'd and turn'd in bed, I slept as sound as sound could be; Methought the P――e, in whisker'd state, When lo! the Papers, one and all, As though they said, « Our sole design is Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly And tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high, |