There with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,

Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.
With affection as free

From decline as the bowers,
And with Hope, like the Bee,
Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on holy and calm as the night.

FAREWELL !-BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

FAREWELL!--but whenever you welcome the hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten 'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle cach heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaning all o'er with your smiles-
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmur'd, I wish he were here!'

Let Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd-
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Then doubt me not-the season
Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

And though my lute no longer
May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee through many a garden roves,
And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But, when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me uot-the season
Is o'er when folly kept me free,
And now the vestal, Reason,

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.1

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length in sadness said,
'We must seek our fortune on other plains ;'-
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,

6

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at the close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees.
'To-night,' said the youth, we'll shelter there;
The wind blows cold, and the hour is late :'
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,
And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate.

'Now, welcome, lady,' exclaim'd the youth,

This castle is thine, and these dark woods all !'
She believed him crazed, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!

And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger woo'd and wed;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story, told of a certain noble family in England.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,1
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine?
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured 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 young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now 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 through 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,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.

Our Wicklow gold-mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, 1 fear, the character here given of them.

2 The 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.

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 named,
I fled the unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired 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, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:

The few, who loved thee once have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.

Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreathe it ;

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

Go-go-though 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 received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed 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 hers was the story that blotted the leaves.