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I wake from my trance !-lo! the Sun is declin.

ing! And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining. -One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail ! Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet, Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell! -Vanish'd Creature ! I bid thy fair image fare

well !



THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day

long ; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet

dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget ;

But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think—is the nightingale singing there yet ? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bende.

meer ?

No; the roses are withered that hung o'er the

wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly

they shone ;

And a dew was distilled from their flowers that

gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was

gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies

An essence that breathes of it many a year ; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bende.



She is far from the land where her young hero

sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing ; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying !

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking : Ah ! little they think who delight in her strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !

He had lived for his love, for his country he died ;

They were all that to life had entwined him ; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the

From her own loved island of sorrow !


I saw thy(a) form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before thy steps of time,

And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light

Which flits not with the breath ;
And life ne'er looked 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 veiled beneath a simple guise

Thy radiant genius shone ;
And that which charmed all other eyes

Seemed worthless in thine 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!

(a) These beautiful stanzas are believed to have been composed on the death of the poetess, Mrs Tighe.


Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without ?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less
For flowering in a wilderness.

Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silvery-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of Kings.

Then come-thy Arab maid will be
The loved and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart,
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;

As if the very lips and eyes
Predestined to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then !

So came thy every glance and tone,
When first on me they breathed and shone ;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if loved for years !

Then fly with me,-if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. (a)

But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place ;-

Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine !


ALAS !-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love !

(a) The hudhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground.


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