Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina!

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature placed it. O, my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases,
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,

But when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart

In safer slumber Love reposes
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh, my Nora Creina dear,

My mild, my artless Nora Creina,
Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleet not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, Mary! *

* I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's "Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!"

G2

BY THAT LAKE.*

BY that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er, †

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.

Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,
Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh ;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last
Dreams of Heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.

But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

* This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

+ There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And, when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late),
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, Heaven rest her soul'"
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note, which he lov'd, awaking ;-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin'd him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow ;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the
West,

From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT.

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret ;

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine cań steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.