When Hope foretels the brightest, best,
Though Reason on the darkest reckons;
When Passion drives us to the west,
Though Prudence to the eastward beckons ;
When all turns round, below, above,

And our own heads the most of any-
If this is not stark, staring love,

Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

HERE, take my heart, 't will be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,

What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If, in the race we are destined to run, love,

They who have light hearts the happiest beHappier still must be they who have none, love, And that will be my case when mine is with thee!

No matter where I may now be a rover,

No matter how many bright eyes I see; Should Venus' self come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I could not-my heart is with thee!

There let it lic, growing fonder and fonder

And should Dame Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go-I 've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart 's out at interest with thee!

OH! CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

On call it by some better name,
For Friendship is too cold,
And Love is now a worldly flame,
Whose shrine must be of gold;
And passion, like the sun at noon,
That burns o'er all he sees,
Awhile as warm, will set as soon,-
Oh! Call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far,

More free from stain of clay,

Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human still as they:

And if thy lip, for love like this,

No mortal word can frame,

Go, ask of angels what it is,
And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART!

POOR wounded heart!

Poor wounded heart, farewell!
Thy hour is come,

Thy hour of rest is come;

Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou 'It feel in breaking
Less bitter far will be,

Than that long, deadly course of aching,

This life has been to thee

Poor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell!

PALE BROKEN FLOWER! PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee' Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath

In vain the sun-beams seek

To warm that faded cheek! The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over the Now are but tears, to weep thy early death!

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her; Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou. In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fallThe only smile that could from death awaken her. That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;
Saying, «Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be
I'll worship each bud that thou bearest.

For the hearts of this world are hollow,
And fickle the smiles we follow;

A MELOLOGUE

UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman senate for using « the outlandish term monopoly.» But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, «if 't is not sense, at least 't is Greek.» To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that, by « Melologue,» I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalic of Racine.

THERE breathes a language, known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,

T. M.

Where oft, of old, on some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,
And call'd his distant love with such sweet power,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,

Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;1
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where, beneath a sunless sky,

The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,

And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phobus burn'd upon his brow.
Oh Music! thy celestial claim

Is still resistless, still the same;

1. A certain Spaniard, one night bae, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, ani would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband, Gurcilesso de la Véga, a Sir Paul Rycaut's transJapon.

And, faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides

Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

Greek Air.

List! 't is a Grecian maid that sings,

While, from Ilyssus' silvery springs,
She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;
And by her side, in music's charm dissolving,
Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving,
Dreams of bright days that never can return!
When Athens nursed her olive-bough,
With hands by tyrant power unchain'd,
And braided for the muses' brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd.
When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!

Flourish of Trumpet.

Hark! t is the sound that charms

The war-steed's wakening ears!--
Oh! many a mother folds her arms
Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears;
And, though her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound!
See! from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights;
A conqueror oft-a hero never-
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 't were like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

Oh Music! here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, wild career,

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.
There is an air, which oft among the rocks

Of his own loved land, at evening hour,

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks;
Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind
With tenderest thoughts-would bring around Las
knees

The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;
Sweet notes of home-of love-are all he hears;
And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before,
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears!

Swiss Air-« Ranz des Faches.»
But, wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs,

Spanish Air-« Ya Desperto.»

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,
If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right-
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,
Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin! thine!

LINES

On the Death of Mr P-r-v-l.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot in that hour how the statesman had err'd, And wept, for the husband, the father and friend.

Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,

And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done, And, though wrong'd by him living, bewail'd him when dead.

Even now, if one harsher emotion intrude,

"T is to wish he had chosen some lowlier stateHad known what he was, and, content to be'good, Had ne'er, for our ruin, aspired to be great.

So, left through their own little orbit to move,
His years might have roll'd inoffensive away;
His children might still have been bless'd with his love,
And England would ne'er have been cursed with his
sway.

LINES

On the Death of Sh-r-d-n.

Principibus placuisse viris.--HOR.

YES, grief will have way—but the fast-falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those

Who could bask in that spirit's meridian career,
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close:—

Whose vanity flew round him only while fed

By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave; Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the ghole of the East, comes to feed at his grave!

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;
To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the funeral array
Of one whom they shunn'd in his sickness and sor-

row:

How bailiffs may seize his last blanket to-day, Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!

And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream,
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass'd,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness

cast:

No, not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee
With millions to heap upon foppery's shrine;-
No, not for the riches of all who despise thee,
Though this would make Europe's whole opulence
mine ;-

Would I suffer what-even in the heart that thou hast—
All mean as it is—must have consciously burn'd,
When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee
at last,

And which found all his wants at an end, was return'd!!

« Was this, then, the fate»-future ages will say, When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse

Was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man, The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall, The orator-dramatist-minstrel,-who ran Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all!

« Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art From the finest and best of all other men's powersWho ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers!

« Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd— Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,

Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade;

«Whose eloquence-bright'ning whatever it tried,
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave→→
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!»>

1 The sum was two hundred pounds-offered when Sh-r-d-n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined, for him, by his friends.

That then-oh disgrace upon manhood! even then,

You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood

men,

And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death!

It is strange-it is dreadful ;—shout, tyranny, shout, Through your dungeons and palaces, « Freedom is

o'er!»>

If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss-
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!
Paris, 1821.

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

It would be impossible for His Royal Highness to disengage bis person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it.. Lord CASTLEREAGH's Speech upon. Colonai M'Manos's Appointment.

LAST night I toss'd and turn'd in bed,
But could not sleep-at length I said,
« I'll think of Viscount C-STL-RGH,
And of his speeches-that's the way.'»
And so it was, for instantly

I slept as sound as sound could be;
And then I dream'd-oh, frightful dream!
FUSELI has no such theme;
➖➖➖➖never wrote or borrow'd
Any horror half so horrid!

Methought the P――e, in whisker'd state,
Before me at his breakfast sate:
On one side lay unread petitions,
On 't other, hints from five physicians-
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours—
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.

When lo! the Papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced-oh jacobinic papers!—

As though they said, « Our sole design is
To suffocate his Hoyal Highness!»
The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition:
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the bevy,
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R-G-NT's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read!

Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly

And tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high,