THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE

THO' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide

Of ruby had dy'd

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'TIS believ'd that this harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Syren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov'd.

But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heav'n look'd with pity on true love so warm,
And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smil'd the same-
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was chang'd to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour,

When pleasure, like the midnight flower

That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain

To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near.

And thus, shouid woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-

When did morning ever break,

And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

FROM this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.
When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dar'd thy rights to spurn;
And if now they're false and fly thee,
Shall I, too, basely turn?

No;-whate'er the fires that try thee,
In the same this heart shall burn.

Though the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now a friendly shore,

Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life, when life seems o'er.
And, of those past ages dreaming,
When glory deck'd thy brow,

Of I fondly think, though seeming
So fall'n and clouded now,

Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,—
None so bright, so blest as thou!

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

"TIS the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie wither'd,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

Он weep for the hour,

When to Eveleen's bower

The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night,

And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame.