Who, that ever approach'd 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 bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head

Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life
But at distance observ'd him-through glory, through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,

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

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,-
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:

I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurm'ring dies,

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;

Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!”

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,2 who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush.

Sits ever thus, his only song

To earth and heaven, "Hush. all, hush!"

THE MINSTREL BOY.

THE Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
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 rights 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 lov'd 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 pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery."

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,

But, when its points are gleaming round us Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Norah's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes—
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh! my Nora Creina, dear,

My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light,

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever was told, by the new moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But for the world, let no one be nigh,

Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition,-the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

THE WANDERING BARD.

WHAT life like that of the bard can be,-
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,—
A fount that for ever flows!

The world's to him like some play-ground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;-
If dimm'd the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?

They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him,
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,—
Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,-
For, though he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,

Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.

No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,-
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth

Proclaims he's wanting on earth!