THE

POETS OF YOUNG IRELAND.

THE

POETS OF YOUNG IRELAND.

THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS.

THE WELCOME.

COME in the evening, or come in the morning,

Come when you 're looked for, or come without warning;
Kisses and welcome you 'll find here before you,

And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you.
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, 'true lovers! don't sever.'

I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them;
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom.
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.

Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I 'll wish you, in silence, to love me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the eyrie,
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy,
We'll look on the stars, and we 'll list to the river,
ask of your darling what gift you can give her.

Till

you

Oh! she 'll whisper you, ' Love as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.'

So come in the evening, or come in the morning,
Come when you 're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted,
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, 'true lovers, don't sever!'

THE SACK OF BALTIMORE.

THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles,

The summer's sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,

Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting

bird;

And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard : The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their

play;

The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to

And full of love and peace and rest, its daily labcr

o'er,

Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.

A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight

there;

No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or

air.

The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of

the calm;

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy

balm.

So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide

Must trust their oars - methinks not few-against the ebbing tide,

O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,

They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore !

All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding

feet.

A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame !' From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and

sire and dame,

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's

fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson

shawl;

The yell of Allah!' breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar.

O blessed God, the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing

sword;

Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;

Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild;

Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child.

But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel,