And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name! POOR WOUNDED HEART! Poon wounded heart! Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Less bitter far will be, Than that long, deadly course of aching, This life has been to thee Poor breaking heart, poor breaking heart, farewell! There-broken heart, Poor broken heart, farewell! The pang is o'er The parting pang is o'er, Thou now wilt bleed no more, Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying, Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus early lying, Poor broken heart, poor broken heart, farewell! PALE BROKEN FLOWER! PALE broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath In vain the sun-beams seek To warm that faded cheek! The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee, So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her; Like sun-beams round her fall The only smile that could from death awaken her, THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove, Saying, «Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, For the hearts of this world are hollow, And 't is sweet, when all their witcheries pall, So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew « Sweet tears,>> I shall say (as I brush them away), << At least there's no art in this weeping.» Although thou shouldst die to-morrow, 'T will not be from pain or sorrow, THE EAST INDIAN. COME May, with all thy flowers, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me. From Eastern Isles she 's winging Through watry wilds her way, And on her cheek is bringing The bright sun's orient ray : Oh! come and court her hither, Ye breezes mild and warmOne winter's gale would wither So soft, so pure a form. The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing Through gardens always bright. Then now, oh May! be sweeter Than e'er thou 'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore. SHINE OUT, STARS! SHINE Out, Stars! let Heaven assemble And would Love, too, bring his sweetness, Then would crown this bright May eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this eve of May. THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA. Sit and sing the last sunshine away! Which hung around us seem gone, Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on. 358 Then, as each to his favourite sultana Though all other happy hours From my fading memory fly, Of that star-light, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf, shall die! TELL HER, OH! TELL HER. TELL her, oh! tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbour, is still lying there; Breezes, like lovers, around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer. Tell her, oh! tell her, the tree that, in going, So while away from that arbour forsaken, The maiden is wandering, oh! let her be True as the lute that no sighing can waken, And blooming for ever unchanged as the tree! OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE. OUR first young love resembles Our summer sun may squander Bring all the light it may, NIGHTS OF MUSIC. NIGHTS of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remember'd long, When we went by moon-light roving, Hearts all love and lips all song. When this faithful lute recorded All my spirit felt to thee, And that smile the song rewarded, Worth whole years of fame to me! Nights of song, and nights of splendour, Fill'd with joys too sweet to lastJoys that, like your star-light tender, While they shone, no shadow cast: SONG. I'VE roam'd through many a weary round, While glory sighs for other spheres, And think the home which love endears The needle thus too rudely moved, Miscellaneous Poems. A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC. THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them. With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman senate for using « the outlandish term monopoly.» But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, «if 't is not sense, at least 't is Greek.» To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that, by « Melologue,» ] mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine. T. M. THERE breathes a language, known and felt That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;' Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow, To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, Of human passion rise and fall for thee! Greek Air. List! 't is a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilyssus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return! When Athens nursed her olive-bough, With hands by tyrant power unchain'd, A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd. Where coward feet now faintly falter; Flourish of Trumpet. Hark! 't is the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!— Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; See! from his native hills afar Oh Music! here, even here, A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and be my husband.' -Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Paul Rycaut's translation. Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power. Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks; Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts-would bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, With speaking tears, that ask him why But, wake the trumpet's blast again, Spanish Chorus. Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, By brave Gerona's deathful story, Spanish Air-« Ya Desperto.» But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's light Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remember'd well, Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded? LINES On the Death of Mr Perceval. In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot in that hour how the statesman had err'd, And wept, for the husband, the father, and friend. « Was this, then, the fate »-future ages will say, When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse « Was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man, The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall, The orator-dramatist-minstrel,-who ran Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all! « Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art From the finest and best of all other men's powersWho ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart, And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers! << Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light, « Whose eloquence-bright'ning whatever it tried, Yes-such was the man, and so wretched his fate ;- In the woods of the North there are insects that prey LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD ENTERED NAPLES. Carbone Notati! Ay-down to the dust with them, slaves as they areFrom this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war, Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains! On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore ! Let their fate be a mock-word-let men of all lands Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls! 1 Naturalists have observed that, upon dissecting an elk, there were found in its head some large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by them.-History of Poland. And deep and more deep as the iron is driven, Shame, shame, when there was not a bosom, whose heat And send all its prayers with your liberty's start When the world stood in hope-when a spirit, that breathed The fresh air of the olden time, whisper'd about, When around you, the shades of your mighty in fame, Over Freedom's apostles-fell kindling on you! Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, Worth the history of ages-when, had you but hurl'd One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world That then-oh disgrace upon manhood! even then, You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death! It is strange-it is dreadful;-shout, tyranny, shout, Through your dungeons and palaces, «Freedom is o'er !»> If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out, For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free, Methought the PRINCE, in whisker'd state, Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly- But oh!-the basest of defections! I waked-and pray'd, with lifted hand, |