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I love you for lulling me back into dreams

Of the blue Highland mountains and

echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing

their balm, While the deer was seen glancing in

sunshine remote, And the deep mellow crush of the

wood-pigeon's note Made music that sweetened the

calm.

Not a pastoral song has a pleasanter tune

Than ye speak to my heart, little
wildings of June:
Of old ruinous castles ye tell.
Where I thought it delightful your

beauties to find, When the magic of Nature first breathed on my mind, And your blossoms were part of her spell.

Even now what affections the violet awakes;

What loved little islands, twice seen in their lakes, Can the wild water-lily restore; What landscapes I read in the primrose's looks, And what pictures of pebbled and minnowy brooks, In the vetches that tangled their shore.

Earth's cultureless buds, to my heart

ye were dear, Ere the fever of passion, or ague of fear Had scathed my existence's bloom; Once I welcome you more, in life's

passionless stage, With the visions of youth to revisit my age, [tomb. And I wish you to grow on my

HOBENL INDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,

Then rushed the steed to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rollingdun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On! ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their windingsheet!

And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

But the day-star attracted his eye's

sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of

the ocean,

Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh!

"Sad is my fate!" said the heartbroken stranger;

"The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,

Or cover my harp with the wildwoven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

"Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! [me O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace In a mansion of peace — where no

perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or lived to deplore!

"Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on

my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend,

dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned

by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading

treasure? Tears, like the rain drop, may fall

without measure, But rapture and beauty they can

not recall.

"Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:

Erin! an exile bequeathes thee this blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold when my heart stills

her motion, Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of

the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing

aloud with devotion,— Erin mavournin—Erin go bragh!" *

TO THE RAINBOW.

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part!

I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art —

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,

A midway station given For happy spirits to alight

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,

As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws,

What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High,

Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green, undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,

How came the world's gray fathers forth

To watch thy sacred sign! • Ireland my darling— Ireland forever.

And when it's yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,

Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang,

On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unrepaired greet thy beam:

Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the prophet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings, When glittering in the freshened fields

The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower and town,

Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,

As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

THE RIVER OF LIFE.

The more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages:

A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.

The gladsome current of our youth,

Ere passion yet disorders. Steals lingering like a river smooth

Along its grassy borders.

But as the careworn cheek grows wan, And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,

Ye stars, that measure life to man. Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,

And life itself is vapid, Why, as we reach the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange — yet who would change

Time's course to slower speeding, When one by one our friends have gone

And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading

strength Indemnifying fleetness; And those of youth, a seeming

length,

Proportioned to their sweetness.

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North,
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly
shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand;
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:

As they drifted on their path.

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath,

For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried,

when each gun
From its adamantine lips
spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

[graphic]

Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear

More sweet than all the landscape

smiling near ? — "Pis distance lends enchantment to

the view,

And robes the mountain in its azure hue.

Thus, with delight, we linger to survey

The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered

scene

More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,

And every form, that Fancy can repair

From dark oblivion, grows divinely there

Auspicious Hope! in thy sweet garden grow

Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe;

Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour,

The wayworn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower;

There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing.

What peaceful dreams thy handmaid

spirits bring! What viewless forms th' yEolian

organ play, And sweep the furrowed lines of

anxious thought away.

[From The Pleasures of Hope.]
HOPE IN ADVERSITY.

Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command,

When Israel marched along the desert land,

Blazed through the night on lonely

wilds afar, And told the path,—a never-setting

star:

So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine,

Hope is thy star, her light is ever thine.

[From The Pleasures of Hope.]
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep

The darkening world, and tempesttroubled deep!

Though boundless snows the withered heath deform,

And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm,

Yet shall the smile of social love repay.

With mental light, the melancholy day!

And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er,

The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore,

How bright the fagots in his little hall

Blaze on the hearth, and warm his pictured wall!

How blest he names, in Love's familiar tone,

The kind, fair friend, by nature

marked his own; And, in the waveless mirror of his

mind,

Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind,

Since when her empire o'er his heart began!

Since first he called her his before the holy man!

Trim the gay taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home;

And let the half-uncurtained window hail

Some way-worn man benighted in the vale!

Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high,

As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky,

While fiery hosts in Heaven's wide circle play,

And bathe in lurid light the milkyway,

Safe from the storm, the meteor, and

the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the

solemn hour —

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