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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.
T-TAS sorrow thy young days shaded,
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 hy 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. 12
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,*
That flitted from tree to tree
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
The gem did she still display,
Then waft the fair gem away?
If thus the young hours have fleeted.
When sorrow itself look'd bright;
That led thee along so light;
Each feeling that once, was dear ;—
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
NO, NOT MOKE WELCOME.
O, not more welcome the fairy numbers
* " The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman 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,
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!
I'd live years of grief and pain
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,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
The heart, whose hopes could make it
Deserves that thou shouldst break it.
When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam d,
Some gleams of future glory.
Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
Some day perhaps thou'It waken
Ev'n now, though-youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:
And they who natter scorn thee.
No genial ties enwreath it;
Go, — go, — though worlds were thine
I would not now surrender
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,
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 ilium'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 M On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name!