And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,

Fair steed, around my love and thee:

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May-evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere,
And only then,-

The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!

OH! BANQUET NOT.

OH! banquet not in those shining bowers
Where youth resorts, but come to me;
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears
And many a cup in silence pour-
Our guests, the shades of former years-
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.

Or, as some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves
Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit, once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries-resting never-
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells that nought on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT?

SHALL the harp then be silent when he, who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,

Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies?1

No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crossed,
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ??

1 The celebrated Irish orator and patriot, Grattan.

It is only these two first verses that are either fitted or intended to be sung.

What a union of all the affections and powers,
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit, whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind!

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime—
Like a pyramid raised in the desert-where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time!-

That one lucid interval snatched from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when, filled with his soul,
A nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,
And, for one sacred instant, touched liberty's goal!

Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,

In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit, are shown ;-

An eloquence, rich-wheresoever its wave

Wandered free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through As clear as the brook's 'stone of lustre,' and gave,

With the flash of the gem, its solidity too ;

Who, that ever approached him, when, free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread

'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bowed,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head,—

That home, where-like him who, as fable hath told,

Put the rays from his brow, that his child might come near— Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old

Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear :

Is there one who has thus, through his orbit of life,

But at distance observed him, through glory, through blame,

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same?

Such a union of all that enriches life's hour,

Of the sweetness we love and the greatness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power,

A child with a thunderbolt, only portrays.

Oh no-not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns,
Deep, deep, o'er the grave where such glory is shrined-
O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.

"TWAS one of those dreams that by music are brought,
Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought,
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life but its sweetness is gone

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
To which he had sung Erin's bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Denis' green isle to Glena's wooded shore

He listened-while high o'er the eagle's rude nest
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note that died here
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills where the soul of the strain,
That had ceased upon earth, was awaking again'

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music whose breath
Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim-
'Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

Even so, though thy memory should now die away,
'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,
And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
Through the answering future, thy name and thy song !'

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

In describing the Skeligs (islands of the barony of Forth) Dr. Keating says: "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil, which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock.'