No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us
Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm and snows ;
Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

AS sorrow thy young days shaded,

HAS

As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That even in sorrow were sweet.
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.

Has Love, to that soul so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,*
Where sparkles of golden splendor
All over the surface shine?
But if, in pursuit, we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love the bright ore is gone.

* Our Wicklow gold mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,*
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
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 look'd 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 quire of heaven is near,-

* "The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talısman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping he would drop it: but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," &c.-ARABIAN NIGHTS, Story of Kummir al Zummaun,

Then 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! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell-
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of my soul echo'd to its spell !

'Twas whisper'd balm- 'twas 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, though 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.

When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
I fled the unwelcome story;

Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam d,
Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,—

Some day perhaps thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Ev'n now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:

The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,"
No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.

Go, go, though worlds were thine

I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendor!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret
On her thou'st lost forever,-
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still received thee,

And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.

Go

go't is vain to curse,

"Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But O, how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write

With a pencil of light

That illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's

name !

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling

With beams such as break from her own dewy skies

"Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

“I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. "For though Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot,

“And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame;

"But O there is not

"One dishonoring blot

"On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's

name !