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And, when they tread the ruin'd isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile

Could conquer hearts so brave?

“ 'Twas fate,” they'll say, “ a wayward fate

Your web of discord wove;
And while your tyrants join'd in hate,

You never join'd in love!
But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,

And man profaned what God had given, Till some were heard to curse the shrine,

Where others knelt to heaven!”

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

AIR-Nora Creinu.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth!

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one
Like unexpected light surprises !

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear! My gentle bashful Nora Creina!

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!

Oh! 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 refined, But, when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're designd 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 not the light
That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina!

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

Air--Domhnall.

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 fleets not with the breath; And life look'd ne'er more purely bright

Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,

With modest murmur glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide, Mary! So, veild beneath a simple guise,

Thy radiant genius shone, And that, which charm'd all other eyes,

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left thy 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 !"

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