O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And plumes in the gay wind dancıng.

Yet, 't is not helm or feather-
For ask yon despot, whether
His plumed bands

Could bring such hands.

And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em
Give man but heart and freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves

That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever,

'Tis mind alone,

Worth steel and stone,

That keeps men free for ever.
Oh that sight entrancing.

When the morning beam is glancing
O'er files array'd

With helm and blade,

And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well.
May calm and sunshine long be thíne !
How fair thou art let others tell,

To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

In memory's dream that sunny smile Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

"T was light, indeed, too blest for one Who had to turn to paths of care Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there :

No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But, thus in shadow, seem'st a place

Where erring man might hope to rest

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

And all the lovelier for thy tears
For, though but rare thy sunny smile,

'Tis heav'n's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few
But, when indeed they come, divine
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine.

'T WAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.*

"TWAS one of those dreams that by music are

brought,

Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm

thought

When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle to Glena's wooded shore.

* Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney

He listen'd - while high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way lov'd to rest; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,

As if loth to let song so enchanting expire.

It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain
That had ceas'd upon earth was awaking again.

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death
He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,
"Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame :

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away ""T will be caught up again in some happier day, "And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, "Thro' the answering future, thy name and thy song.

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

FAIREST! put on awhile

These pinions of light I bring thee,

And o'er thy own green isle

In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,

At golden sunset, hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom

As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays,
And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs

In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,

That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course through air

He hath been won down by them
Types, sweet maid, of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting,

Never did Love yet see

From heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,+

*

And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid

Lets fall in lonely weeping.

* In describing the Skeligs (islands in the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock.

+"Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears; and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, archbishop of Canterbury,of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."-O'HAL

LORAN.

N