BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHAR IS.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known

To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close ;
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turned when he rose.

ERIN, O ERIN!
LIKE the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane, *

And burned through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,

Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, O Erin ! thus bright through the tears
Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears.
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,

Thy sun is but rising, when others are set :
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,

The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, O Erin! though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.
Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,

The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her setters unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.t
Thus Erin, O Erin ! thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.

* The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions :—"Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materiâ, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus." -Girala. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern. dist. ii. c 34.

+ Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important sub; ect.

DRINK TO HER.
DRINK to her who long,

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song,

What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made

For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,

It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her who long.

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.
At Beauty's door of glass

When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They asked her, which might pass?

She answered, he who could.
With golden key Wealth thought

To pass—but 'twould not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,

Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.
The love that seeks a home

Where wealth and grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,

That dwells in dark gold mines
But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,

Though woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What good could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.*
Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers

Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul might have burned with a holier flame; The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ;* And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire

Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart. But alas for his country!-her pride has gone by,

And that spirit is broken which never would bend ; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;

Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires ; And the torch that would light them through dignity's way

Must be caught from the pile where their country expires. Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream

He should try to forget what he never can heal ; Oh! give but a hope- let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down

Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored; While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,

Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. + But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,

Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs ; Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay,

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.
While gazing on the moon's light,

A moment from her smile I turned,
To look at orbs, that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burned.

But too far

Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame;

Much more dear
That mild sphere

It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following:

So that Ireland (called the land of Ire, for the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord.”-Lloyd's State Worthies, art. the Lord Grandison.

+ See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, 'Ev LUPTOL Kladi to žibos popnpw"I will carry my sword, hidden iu mvrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," &c

Which near our planet smiling came;*
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own;

While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone

That bless my home and guide my way.
The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meet,
Illumed all the pale flowers,
Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.

I said (while

The moon's smile
Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss),

“The moon looks

On many brooks ;
The brook can see no moon but this;"*
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,

One Mary in the world for me.

ILL OMENS.
WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,

And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,

The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in

Had promised to link the last tie before noon ;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
As she looked in the glass which a woman ne'er misses,

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night flower's kisses, I

Flew over the mirror and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brushed him-he fell, alas! never to rise-
“Ah! such,” said the girl, “is the pride of our faces,

For which the soul's innocence too often dies."
While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was

growing,
She culled some, and kissed off its night-fallen dew;
""Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon,
as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more bene-
ficial than they all put together."--Whiston's Theory, &c.

In the Entretiens d' Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry
sky without a moon, with the words, “Non mille quod absens.

Í This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works :-“The moon looks upon many night flowers, the night flowers see but one moon.

An emblem of the soul.

And a rose further on looked so tempting and glowing

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too ;
But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning

Her zone flew in two and the heart's-ease was lost :
Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sighed at its mean-

ing),
"That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost !"

66

BEFORE THE BATTLE.
By the hope within us springing,

Herald of to-morrow's strise ;
By that sun, whose light is bringing

Chains or freedom, death or life
Oh ! remember life can be
No charm for him who lives not free!

Like the day-star in the wave,

Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine,
And light him down the steep of years—

But oh! how blessed they sink to rest,

Who close their eyes on victory's breast !
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers

Where we tamed his tyrant might !
Never let him bind again
A chain like that we broke from then.

Hark! the horn of combat calls

Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round!

Many a heart that now beats high,

In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound -

But oh ! how blessed that hero's sleep
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.
Night closed around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day

Stood few and faint, but fearless still !
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimmed, for ever crossed • "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."-Walker,