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, tho' 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 star-light on he treads

And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which Heaven sheds.

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not,

"Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not. Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,

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,2
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 sweet hours have fleeted
When Sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither
Each feeling that once was dear;
Come, child of misfortune! come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of heaven is near,
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell!

"Twas whisper'd balm 'twas sunshine spoken! -
I'd live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign, blessed sounds again!

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,

1 Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them.

2The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing and settled again," &c. Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China.

-

And thought, tho' false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go,
deceiver! go,

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
I fled th' unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blam'd,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart, that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;

The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!

Go-go-tho' worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still receiv'd thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd thee.
Go-go-'tis vain to curse,

"Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of ERIN stood weeping,

For her's was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,

With a pencil of light

That illum'd the whole volume, her WELLINGTON's name!

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling

With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies

"Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

"I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. "For tho' Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, "And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame; "But oh! there is not

"One dishonouring blot

"On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON's name!

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,

"The grandest, the purest, e'n thou hast yet known; "Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

"Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
"At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
"Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame
"And, bright o'er the flood

"Of her tears and her blood,

"Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON's name!"

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.
Tho' 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.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him, the Sprite,
Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray

Was turn'd away,

O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes

Again to set it glowing?

No vain alas! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever!

WHERE IS THE SLAVE?

WHERE is the slave, so lowly, .
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?

What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,

Would wait till time decay'd it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, ERIN! farewell, all,

Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that, whose braid

Is pluck'd to shade

The brows, with victory glowing!
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,

The friends we've tried

This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk; as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady MORGAN (in a note upon her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnell) has given a very different account of that Goblin.

Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us!
Farewell, ERIN! farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
COMB, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!
Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,
Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

"Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled!
"Tis gone
and the gleams it has left of its burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,

And darkest of all, hapless ERIN, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.'
Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, ERIN, from thee.
But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood!"
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost ERIN, on thee.

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone!
Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave,
that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,

When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame,

And his soul like the wood, that grows precious in burning -
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!

• "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.