The

welcome the bard,where'er he comes,-
For, though he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves

To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,—
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

ALONE in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved

Shed round us once, where'er we roved

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've loved, and lived to see

The few bright things they thought would stay Forever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice-where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no, her spell is vain,-

As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Where summer's wave unmurm'ring dies,

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush ; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

The rose saith, chidingly, "Husà, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,' who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus, his only song

To earth and heaven," Hush, all, hush!"

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

THEY came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main

Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
"Our destined home or grave!"

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines

A sparkle of radiant green,

As though in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light through the wave was seen. ""Tis Innisfail'-'tis Innisfail!"

Rings o'er the echoing sea;

While, bending to heav'n, the warriors hail That home of the brave and free.

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye

A look of such sunny omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,

When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE

I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:

1 The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians. 2 "Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus

should obtain the possession of a Western Island, (which was Ireland,) and there inhabit."-Keating.

The Island of Destiny one of the ancient names of Ireland

THE NIGHT DANCE.

STRIKE the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her

eye,

Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. Then, sound notes-the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd bright

est!

Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wak'ning its spell, even stone would be stirr'd, And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,

Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny's rude control, Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,

And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,

Was like that rock of the Druid race,' Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us?

Again, that strain !-to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding-
Again! Again!

h, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a
feather,

Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

THERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,

That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.

And, see-the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.

The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.

"The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or

On! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,

How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy shore,

I wander'd young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then

Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing;2-

That Eden where th' immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,-
Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,--
As sunny and as vain!

the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories." Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland.