MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumb'ring strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace' and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded

With hopes-that now are turn'u to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee,
Are sadly mix'd-half flow'rs, half chains?

But come-if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;
How gaily, e'en mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
'Mid desolation tuneful still!

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine! How fair thou art let others tell,

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one
Who had to turn to paths of care-
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,

But, on the world's rude ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours

To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,

But thus in shadow, seem'st a place

Where erring man might hope to rest

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

And all the lovelier for thy tearsFor though but rare thy sunny smile,

'Tis heav'n's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when indeed they come, divine-
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

SHALL THE HARP, THEN, BE SILENT1

SHALL the Harp, then, be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,

Where the first-where the last of her Patriots lies?

No-faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,

Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ;

What a union of all the affections and powers

By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refin'd,
Was embraced in that spirit-whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind!

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime

Like a pyramid rais'd in the desert-where he

And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,
A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,

And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drunk at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,

In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untam'd spring of her spirit are shown

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave

Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through, As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,

With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head-

Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life
But at distance observ'd him-through glory, through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him but mourns
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrin'd―
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

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:

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, "Hush, 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!"