But vain her wish, her weeping vain-
As Time too well hath taught her—
Each year the Fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;

And brings, triumphant, from beneath

His shafts of desolation,

And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,
Through all her madd'ning nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Ev'n now, beside that river-
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,

And stor❜d is still his quiver.

"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"

She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,

The Demon answer, "Never."

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

LAY his sword by his side, it hath serv'd him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-lab'rers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,-
That sword which he lov'd still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause-for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,

As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains;

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,

Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "O leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,"It hath victory's life in it yet!

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
"Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
"Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,

"Ör return to the grave of thy chainless lord.

"But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use "Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,"Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, "Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,
And the light that surrounds us is all from within;
Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,

Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,
First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;

Then, then is the time when affection holds sway
With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;
Love, nurs'd mong pleasures, is faithless as they,
But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers,
Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth;
'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers,
That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.
So it is not 'mid splendour, prosperity, mirth,

That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;
To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,
But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

SAIL on, sail on, thon fearless bark-
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,

"Though death beneath our smile may be,
"Less cold we are, less false than they,
Whose smiling wreek'd thy hopes and thee."

Sail on, sail on-through endless space-

Through calm-through tempest-stop no more: The stormiest sea's a resting-place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore.

Or if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profan'd a world, that else were sweet,

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

i

OF all the fair months that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naïads prepare his steed9 for him
Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;

Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;

And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,

Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.

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 paus'd 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.
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.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she blessed her humble lot,

When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.