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In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor

At twilight so often we've roam'd thro' the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,

And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.* But tho' they were even more bright than the queen

Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never those fair young celestials have seen,

Why—this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare. O think what a world we should have of it here,

If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

OH FOR THE SWORDS.

AH for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them.
When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them!

* ' La Terre pourra £tre pour Venus l'etoile du berger et le m&re des amours-, comme Venus i'est pour nos.'—Plur. Des Mondes,

When free yet, ere courts began

With honors to enslave him,
The best honors worn by Man

Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, &c.

Oh for the kings who flourished then!

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them!
When, safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew,

That Treason durst not enter.
Oh for the Kings who flourished then!

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them!

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

ME'EE ask the hour—what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,

I'd number each glorious second;
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,

Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.

Then fill the cup—what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial, by way of warning.
But Joy lov'd better to gaze on the sun,

xA.s long as its light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on, And how fast that light was going. So-fill the cup—what is it to us

How Time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

CjAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark —
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,

"Though death beneath our smile may be,, "Less cold we are, less false than they,

"Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."

Sail on, sail on — through endless space —

Thro' calm — thro' tempest — stop no more; The stormiest sea's a resting place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or — if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profan'd a world that else were sweet,—

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

VES, sad one of Sion*—if closely resembling,

In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart—If drinking deep, deep of the same ' cup of trembling* Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown;

In her streets, in her halls, Desolation has spoken, And while it is day yet, 'her sun hath gone down.'f

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold;

Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Eemember the bright things that blest them of old.

* These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were once Jews.

t "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."—Jer. Xv. 9.

Ah, well may we call her like thee, 'the Forsaken,** Her boldest are vanquisft'd, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance,— yet came there the
morrow
That shines out at last on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and
sorrow,"
"Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden
Cityt
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drenched her own
lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without

pity,

The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover,!

The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.||

* 'Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken.'—Is A. lxii. 4.

t { How hath the oppressor ceased ! the golden city ceased !'— Is A. xiv. 4.

$ 'Thy pomp is brought down to the grave, .... and the worms cover thee.'—Isa. xiv. 11.

|| 'Thou shait no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms.'— Isa. xlvii. 5.

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