I.

THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.

In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.

But thou, but thou, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep,
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.

In the old high wars of England

My noble fathers bled;

For her lion kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.

But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-drops flow'd for me-
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea.

In a shelter'd home of England
Our sister dwells alone,

With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone.

She little dreams, my brother!

Of the wild fate we have found; I, 'midst the Afric sands a slave, Thou, by the dark seas bound.

II.

THE ALPINE HORN.

THE Alpine horn! the Alpine horn!
Oh! through my native sky,
Might I but hear its deep notes borne,
Once more,-but once,-and die!

Yet, no! 'midst breczy hills thy breath,
So full of hope and morn,
Would win me from the bed of death-
O joyous Alpine horn!

But here the echo of that blast,
To many a battle known,
Seems mournfully to wander past,
A wild, shrill, wailing tone!

Haunt me no more! for slavery's air
Thy proud notes were not born;
The dream but deepens my despair-
Be hush'd, thou Alpine horn!

III.

O YE VOICES.

Ora voices round my own hearth singing!
A the winds of May to memory sweet,
Migh. I yet return, a worn heart bringing,
Would those vernal tones the Wanderer greet, |
Once again?

Never, never! Spring hath smiled and parted
Oft since then your fond farewell was said;
O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted,
Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed,
Oft again.

Or if still around my heart ye linger,

Yet, sweet voices! there must change have

come;

Years have quell'd the free soul of the singer, Vernal tones shall greet the Wanderer home, Ne'er again!

IV.

I DREAM OF ALL THINGS FREE.

I DREAM of all things free!

Of a gallant, gallant bark,

That sweeps through storm and sea,
Like an arrow to its mark!
Of a stag that o'er the hills

Goes bounding in his glee;
Of a thousand flashing rills-
Of all things glad and free!

I dream of some proud bird,
A bright-eyed mountain king!
In my visions I have heard
The rushing of his wing.
I follow some wild river,

On whose breast no sail may be;
Dark woods around it shiver-
-I dream of all things free!

Of a happy forest child,

With the fawns and flowers at play Of an Indian 'midst the wild,

With the stars to guide his way: Of a chief his warriors leading,

Of an archer's greenwood tree :-My heart in chains is bleeding And I dream of all things free!

V.

FAR O'ER THE SEA.

WHERE are the vintage songs
Wandering in glee?
Where dance the peasant bands
Joyous and free?
Under a kind blue sky,

Where doth my birth-place lie

-Far o'er the sea!

Where floats the myrtle-scent

O'er vale and lea,

When evening calls the dove
Homewards to flee?
Where doth the orange gleam
Soft on my na.ive stream?
-Far o'er the sea!

High from the fields of air look down
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.

But thou art there!-serenely bright,
Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,

ter-night's chain;

A flag is unfurl'd, a bright star of the sca,
A ransom upproaches-we yet shall be free!

Where the pines wave, where the light chamois leaps,

Where the lone cagle hath built on the steeps, Where the snows glisten, the mountain rills foam, Free as the falcon's wing, yet shall we roam.

Or crown the lowliest tomb! Ivy, Ivy all are thinc, Palace, hearth, and shrine.

'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread O'er classic plains, through deserts free, On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee.
And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,

Days pass-thou Ivy never sere!*
And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine-
-Temple, pillar, shrine!

Therefore, once, and yet again,
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom,
With a light and flush of bloom:
So should one depart, who goes
Where no Death can touch the rose !

THE DYING GIRL AND FLOWERS.

THE MUSIC OF ST. PATRICK'S.

The choral music of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, ia almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill.--The majestic harmony of effect thus produced is not a little deepened by the character of the Church itself which, though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognize it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old;-a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the funeral march at the burial of some warlike King.

They lend the wings of morning to its flight No earthly passion in th' exulting lay, Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven!-Yet wherefore to mine eye
Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source?
Ev'n while the waves of that strong harmony
Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
-Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel
Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of thu Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.

DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling of Darker is thy repose, my fair-haired son! Silent and dark

A LYRE its plaintive sweetness pour'd
Forth on the wild wind's track;

The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord,
But gave no music back,

-Oh! child of song!

Bear hence to heaven thy fire!

What hop'st thou from the reckless throng?
Be not like that lost lyre!
Not like that lyre!

A flower its leaves and odours cast
On a swift-rolling wave;

Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass'd,
And back no treasure gave.
-Oh! heart of love!

Waste not thy precious dower!
Turn to thine only home above,
Be not like that lost flower!
Not like that flower.

SISTER! SINCE I MET THEE LAST.

SISTER! Since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath past,
In the softness of thine eyes

Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone,
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
Gentle sister, thou hast loved!

Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hues too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream,
Thou art followed by a dream;
In the woods and valleys lone,
Music haunts thee not thine own:
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain?
Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower!
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Wring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest.
-Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!