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"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, ;< The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet.
known; Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. "At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou
hast stood, To, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame— "And "bright o'er the flood "Of her tears and her blood, Let the rainbow of hope be her Wellington's name!"
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
HPHE time I've lost in wooing,
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
My only books
Were woman's looks,
Her smile when Beauty granted,
Like him the Sprite*
Whom maids by night
This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to he met with, they say, in the fields at dusk ; — as long as you keep your eyes
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,
And are those follies going?
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
OH WHERE'S THE SLAVE.
AH, where's the slave so lowly,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
upon him, lie is fixed, and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donncl) has given a very different account of that goblin.
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Farewell, Erin,— farewell, all
Less dear the laurel growing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all
COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
pOME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh, what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel, in moments of bliss,
'TIS GONE AND FOREVER.
*HPIS gone, and forever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead, When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
Look'd upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled. 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee.
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.* Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid! Then, then,—had one Hymn of Deliverance blended The tongues of all nations—:how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee!
* "The sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner. K
But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race unworthy its good, Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptis'd it in blood! Then vanish'd forever that fair, sunny vision, Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin! on thee.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
T SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from
us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light