Bounding from the pebbly beach,
Far beyond each javelin's reach
Basset steer'd the bark which bore
Gertrude to yon island shore, (BB)
Where his fortress well might mock
Blood-red Battle's fiercest shock-
(On that isle you yet may trace
Relics of his dwelling-place;
Lilies mingled with the rose
On its grassy sides repose,
Cowslips smile upon the green;
Once it knew a different scene;
All is still and peaceful now,
Once a fortress girt its brow—
Oft the hardy rustic's toil
From beneath the verdant soil
Suddenly has brought to light
Iron records of the fight-
Smiling scornfully his eye
Gaz'd upon the crimson sky
Lit by flames which burst on high,
Flashing madly from the home
Which he lately call'd his own-
Bending o'er the Cross which prest
On his iron-circled breast,
Fetch'd from far Loretto's shrine,
(He accounted it divine,

For the sandall'd pilgrim said
When he barter'd it for bread,
That 'twas sever'd from "the tree"
Which had caus'd Christ's agony ;)

Solemnly he swore to be

Soon reveng'd right bitterly-
Mountjoy's crumbling walls can tell

That he kept his oath too well.

Row, fisherman row; the hoarse voice of the tempest
Is calling aloud to the deep inland sea ;

Ply thy oar, or yon orb in the west quickly sinking
Will ne'er again pour its refulgence on thee.

Kind Reader adieu-the dark shadows of Ev'ning
Have chas'd each bright charm from the late-smiling

lake;

The fast-coming storm scares the birds which were

weaving

Rich Melody's web in yon rose-tangled brake— Green Erin, forgive the rash hand of a stranger

Who has dar'd to unhang thy long slumbering lyre, And ventur'd to sweep its bright chords often breath'd on By Moore with the warmth of rich Poesy's fire. Forgive the attempt-should thy bright-beaming face Reward with one smile the adventurous strain,

At morn, reinspird'd by thy favouring grace
The hand of the stranger will strike it again.

ODE TO MUSIC.

(1843.)

IGHTY mistress of the heart,

M

Music, loveliest child of Art,
'Neath thy spell the pulses beat
Gladden'd with a new-born heat;
Purer feelings seem to be
Chiming with the melody-

Oh! what rapture priz'd more dearly
Than a maiden's voice which clearly
Sweetly floating to the sky

Sends its liquid notes on high?
Ah!-that ne'er-forgotten strain
Suddenly brings back again
Thoughts which in a happier hour
Had a magic in their power;
Yielding gladness such as youth
(Yet a votary of Truth)

Felt throughout the raptur'd frame
Sweetly stealing; once again
Sun-shine there delights to play,

Such as warm'd an earlier day
When the lips of warbling Beauty

Pour'd forth streams of melody;
When the Songstress seem'd to be
A Terrestrial Deity;

When the lover warm and young
O'er the warbling maiden hung-
Oft, alas! the draught of sadness
Mingles bitterly with gladness,
While delighted Echo lingers,
When Reflection gently whispers,
"Sweet indeed that liquid strain
Like the past, yet not the same"-
Were it possible again,

E'en one moment to retrace
Her too-well-remembered face,
Who beneath the hallow'd sod
Slumbers till the voice of God,
Trumpet-tongu'd shall bid her rise
To his kingdom in the skies;

On this tear-dew'd cheek Joy's bloom
Would once more its place resume;
Once again this heart would beat
With a long-forgotten heat;

Once again 'twould harbour Peace

Maiden oh! in mercy cease,

Cease that melody, to me

'Tis replete with agony,

Feelings which defy Oblivion

Fiercely claim their old dominion

Maiden cease; this sad heart thirsting
For what cannot be, is bursting;

Maiden cease; no words could make thee
Understand what anguish racks me,
May'st thou never feel such pain
In thy heart-strings and thy brain;
Thoughts wont often to entrance
This warm heart choke utterance;
(So, the visions of a dream
Oft 'neath sleep's dominion seem
To enthrall the limbs which writhe
While to move they vainly strive ;)
Hope on hopeless wings hath fled;
Where my idol? she is dead;
"Idol'-shame! God's love alone
Ought to fill the bosom's throne;
May such madness be forgiven;
Is that Echo? no-arisen
She is coming! 'tis no vision;
She that rebel word reproaching,
Swift on seraph-wings approaching
Bids each murmuring thought to cease;
As of yore she whispers "Peace;"
She the angels' choir hath left,
Ah! I am not all-bereft ;

Hark! her silvery tones are ringing,
Hark! her angel-tongue is singing,
Sonnds of richest sweetness flinging
Through the vault of heaven, bringing
Bliss which I deserve not, sinning