Of nursing many a wrong desire;

Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star.-
All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-

All, but that Freedom of the Mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me,-
Those friendships in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly ;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I found,

Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!

DE

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

EAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!

The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine.

If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

HIS world is all a fleeting show,

THIS

For man's illusion given;

The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,-

There's nothing true but heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb,-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way,-

There's nothing calm but Heaven!

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

HE harp that once through Tara's halls

THE

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

'HE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

THE

In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-
'Land of song!' said the warrior bard,

'Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy right shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under:
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,—
They shall never sound in slavery!'

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

HERE'S not in the wide world a valley so sweet,

ΤΗ

As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

T

CHARLES LAMB.

Born 1775. Died 1834.

LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALBUM.

FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white,

A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair,
Have 'written strange defeatures' there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamped sad dates-he can't recall.

And error, gilding worst designs—

Like speckled snake that strays and shinesBetrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun-but finished not;

And fruitless late remorse doth trace-
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace-
Her irrecoverable race.