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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 is come,

Thy hour of rest is come;

Thou soon wilt reach thy home,
Poor wounded heart, farewell!
The pain thou 'It feel in breaking

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,
Thou sleep'st in peace at last-

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,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death!

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her;
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fall

The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

BEING weary of love, I flew to the grove,
And chose me a tree of the fairest;

Saying, «Pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
I'll worship each bud that thou bearest.

For the hearts of this world are hollow,
And fickle the smiles we follow;

And 't is sweet, when all their witcheries pall,
To have a pure love to fly to:

So, my pretty Rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be,
And the only one now I shall sigh to.»

When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew
Of morning is bashfully peeping,

« 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,

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THE EAST INDIAN.

COME May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
Thy fragrant breath at morn:
When May-flies haunt the willow,

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
Round us every festal ray,
Lights that move not, lights that tremble,
All to grace this eve of May.
Let the flower-beds all lie waking,
And the odours shut up there,
From their downy prisons breaking,
Fly abroad through sea and air.

And would Love, too, bring his sweetness,
With our other joys to weave,
Oh, what glory, what completeness,

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.
On the joys of our evening posada,
When, resting at close of the day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

Sit and sing the last sunshine away!
So blithe, that even the slumbers

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
In sleep is still breathing the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana
Half breaks from our lips as we lie.
Then, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we 're up and gone-
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.

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,
Beside the green arbour she playfully set,
Lovely as ever is blushing and blowing,
And not a bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

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
That short but brilliant ray,
Which smiles, and weeps, and trembles
Through April's earliest day.
No, no-all life before us,
Howe'er its lights may play,
Can shed no lustre o'er us
Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander
A blaze serener, grander,
Our autumn beam may, like a dream
Of heaven, die calm away:
But no-let life before us

Bring all the light it may,
'T will shed no lustre o'er us
Like that first trembling ray.

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,
I've wander'd east and west;
Pleasure in every clime I've found,
But sought in vain for rest.

While glory sighs for other spheres,
I feel that one's too wide,

And think the home which love endears
Worth all the world beside.

The needle thus too rudely moved,
Wanders unconscious where;
Till having found the place it loved,
It, trembling, settles there.

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
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,

That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,
Where oft, of old, on some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,
And call'd his distant love with such sweet power,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,

Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;'
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow,
Oh Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides

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,
And braided for the muses' brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd.
When heroes trod each classic field

Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!

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;
And, though her fond heart sink with fears,
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound
With valour's fever at the sound!

See! from his native hills afar
The rude Helvetian flies to war;
Careless for what, for whom he fights,
For slave or despot, wrongs or rights;
A conqueror oft-a hero never—
Yet lavish of his life-blood still,
As if 't were like his mountain rill,
And gush'd for ever!

Oh Music! here, even here,
Amid this thoughtless, wild career,

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.
There is an air, which oft among the rocks

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,
And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these?
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;
Sweet notes of home-of love-are all he hears;
And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before,
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears!
Swiss Air-« Ranz des Vaches.»

But, wake the trumpet's blast again,
And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm,
'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,
And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys!
Nor, Music! through thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty!

Spanish Chorus.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air!
And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory!

Spanish Air-« Ya Desperto.»

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right-
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,

Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin! thine!

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.

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« 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,
Play'd round every subject, and shone as it play'd-
Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ;-

« Whose eloquence-bright'ning whatever it tried,
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave-
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!»

Yes-such was the man, and so wretched his fate ;-
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,
And expect 't will return to refresh them at eve!

In the woods of the North there are insects that prey
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh;1
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die!

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,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

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,
Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be,
To think-as the damn'd haply think of that heaven
They had once in their reach-that they might have
been free!

Shame, shame, when there was not a bosom, whose heat
Ever rose o'er the ZERO of --——'s heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,

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,
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you, the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seem'd bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings-like tongues of
bright flame

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,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss-
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!
Paris, 1821.

Methought the PRINCE, in whisker'd state,
Before me at his breakfast sate:
On one side lay unread petitions,
On 't other, hints from five physicians-
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours-
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.
When lo! the Papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced-oh jacobinic papers!-
As though they said, « Our sole design is
To suffocate his Royal Highness!>>
The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition:
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the bevy.
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the REGENT's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read!

Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly-
And tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high;
Nay even death-warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too and join the rest.

But oh!-the basest of defections!
His letter about « predilections»>-
His own dear letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shock'd with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur, « Et TU Brute!»
Then sunk, subdued, upon the floor,
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!

I waked-and pray'd, with lifted hand,
«Oh! never may this dream prove true;
Though paper overwhelms the land,
Let it not crush the Sovereign too!»

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