THE MINSTREL BOY.

THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him."Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,

Though all the world betrays thee,

"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, "One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery !

"Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery."

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth;

Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,

But, when its points are gleaming round us Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Norah's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes-
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh! my Nora Creina, dear,

My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light,

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
`s ever was told, by the new moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But for the world, let no one be nigh,

Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition, the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
"Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

THE WANDERING BARD.

WHAT life like that of the bard can be,-
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,—
A fount that for ever flows!

The world's to him like some play-ground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;-
If dimm'd the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

A

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?

They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him,
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,-
Young stars that never die!

Then, 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!