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What though 'tis true I've talk'd of love,
And other beauties idly strove
My heart to free from Rosa's chain,
Unbroke the golden links remain,

Entwin'd round every part.
For if another's charms I prais’d,
Those charms some fond remembrance rais'd,
Perhaps 'twas not her tresses flowing,
Dimpl'd cheek, or blushes glowing,

Oh, no! oh, no!
'Twas Rosa's lip, 'twas Rosa's eye,
'Twas Rosa's self that caus'd the sigh,

Twas Rosa rul'd my heart.

I own, betray'd by youth or wino,
I've sworn a face or form divine ;
Or when some witching syren sung,
My yielding soul bewilder'd hung

Enraptur'd with her art.
But soon the feeble spell was gone,
Some faint resemblance rais'd alone;
Could tones less sweet, and looks less smiling,
Long delude my sense beguiling,

Oh, no! oh, no!
Twas Rosa's voice, or Rosa's glance,
'Twas Rosa's self that caus’d the trance,

And touch'd my copscious heart.

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The May-flower and the eglantine, May share a brow less sad than mine! But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress tree.

Let dimpl’d mirth his temples twine,.
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due; .
The myrtle bough bids lover's live,
But that Matilda will not give,
Then, Lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree,

Let merry England proudly rear
Her boasted roses, bought so dear;
Let Albyn bind her bonnet blue, !
With heath and hare-bell dipt in dew;
On favour'd Erin's creșt be seen,
The flower she loves of emerald green;
But, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree.

Strike the wild harp, while maids prepare
The ivy, meet for minstrel's hair :
And while his crown of laurel leaves,
With bloody hand, the victor weaves,

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Let the loud trump his triumph tell,
But when you hear the passing bell, ,
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me,
And twine it of the cypress tree.

Yes, twine for me the cypress bough, But, oh, Matilda, twine not now! Stay till a few brief months are past, And I have look'd and lov'd my last! When villagers my shroud bestrew, With pansies, rosemary, and rue, Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress tree.

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My love can boast a sweeter flowet, Than can be seen in cultur’d bower, When gently falls the evening shower

Upon the opening blossoin,

This early flower, on mountain side, ,
Bedeck's the slope where streamlets glide
In haste to meet the ocean's tide,

Which guards its native shores.

I love to seek the primrose pale
That bends before the vernal gale,
Which softly breathes along the vale,

When winter's storm is o'er.

In primrose pale I sometimes trace
The sweetness of my Lucy's face;
The tender heart, that stamps the grace

That blooms when rases wither.

CXXXVI.

THE MAID OF GLENCONNEL.

AIR-The banks of the Devon.

The pearl of the fountain, the rose of the valley,

Ase sparkling and lovely, are stainless and mild; The pearl sheds its ray 'neath the dark water, gaily,

The rase opes its blossom, to bloom on the wild.

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