OH! weep for the hour,

When to Eveleen's bower

The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night,

And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds pass'd soon

From the chaste cold moon,

And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,

When the clouds shall pass away,

Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

The white snow lay

On the narrow path-way,

When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint

Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray

Soon melted away

Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
But there's a light above,

Which alone can remove

That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.4

SILENT, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from. this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.

IT is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume.
Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

COME O'ER THE SEA.

COME o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;

'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden, with me,

Come wherever the wild wind blows;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul

Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea

Made for the Free,

Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves,

But, on the waves,

Love and Liberty's all our own.

No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us—
Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden with me,

Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,

HE. What the bee is to the flow'ret,

When he looks for honey-dew,

Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE. What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near
Whisp'ring kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.—But they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,

'Tis but right, that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them while they may.

THE PARALLEL.

5

YES, sad one of Sion, if closely resembling,

In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart—
If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken,
And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown;
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,
And while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, "the Forsaken,"
Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves;
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have tones 'mid their mirth, like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the morrow,
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,
Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight:

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships:

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,

And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.