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ECHO.

JJOW sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And, far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then,—
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,

Breath'd back again.

OH BANQUET NOT.

AH banquet not in those shining bowers

Where youth resorts — but come to me; For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears,

And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years.

Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs

Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves

Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves,

Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

rpHE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could wraken
My spirit once is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores by which some headlong bark

To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.
M2

I have not a joy but of tby bringing,

And pain itself seems sweet when springing

From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells that naught on earth can break,

Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world make wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

OHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who first ^ gave

To our country a name is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave

Where the first—where the last of her Patriots lies?

No—faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows
be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been
lost.*

What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,

Was embraced in that spirit—whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind?

* It is only the first two verses that are either fitted or intended to be sung.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime —

Like a pyramid rais'd in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,

A nation o'erleap'd the dark hounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant touch'd Liberty's goal—

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untam'd spring of her spirit are shown;

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave

Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thr.ough,

As clear as the brook's * stone of lustre,' that gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too —

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head— Is there one who hath thus, through his orbit of life, Rat at distance observ'd him — through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same —

Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is shrin'd —

O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind.

OH THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing,

When morning beam is glancing

O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,
And plumes in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating

That song whose breath

May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing

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