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HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet!
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?-
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine-
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
Ah false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone?

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear:—
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing:

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;-

Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Eenshee cried,

How oft has death untied

Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwin'd by Love!

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;

Long may the fair and brave

Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fall'n upon gloomy days!
Star after star decays,

Every bright name, that shed

Light o'er the land, is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quenched are our beacon lights-
Thou of the Hundred Fights!
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung!
Both mute-but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride

Tell how they lived and died.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light.

"Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me;

'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shar'd with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year

Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!

And though the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh we shall journey on, love,
More safely, without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I've yet to roam:-
The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus when the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out,

He feels awhile benighted,

And looks round in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

WHEN he who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

LIKE the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,
And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' 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 tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,

Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwak'd by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,

Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.

Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,

And the hope that liv'd thro' it shall blossom at last.

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

THE time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light, that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing.

Though Wisdom oft has sought me,

I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
My only books

Were woman's looks,

And folly's all they've taught me.

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