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For she was very beautiful,

Bewildering and bright,
And I own her pretty winning ways

And words, bewitch'd me quite.
Ah! I even now remember

That sweet madness with a sigh ; Nay, do not draw the hand away,

Nor droop the doubting eye;
But think, if I was dazzled thus

By careless Caroline,
How much more fondly I shall prize

So pure a heart as thine!



The Summer past, what dreams are over!
The incense of the air hath fled :
The carpets of the golden meadows
Are torn by tempests, shred by shred:
The rose hath lost her fragrance ;
The lily hangs her head, -
Dead, -dead!

Sounds are in the earth and ether,
Sobs and murmurs half divine;
Blasts beyond Man's puny power
Rock the branches of the pine:
Yet one sweet thought bloometh
Through the stormy time,-
That thy heart is mine,
And mine-thine !

Shout, ye Winds and Thunders !
Pour your floods of gloom !
All must end in sunshine!
That is still


When the maidens May and April,
In their verdant loom,
Weave bud and bloom.

So, through wild November,
And December's snow,
I will dream of beauty,
Till the violets blow :
And, should pain beset me,
In this world below,
Thou art near, I know,-
I know !-I know !


The Author of this poem is not known, but it well deserves preservation in these pages.

I've pleasant thoughts which memory brings, in moments

free from care, Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair ; Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies, And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her witching

eyes. Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell Of sudden music, gentle notes that of deep gladness tell : She came, like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and

of mirth, And her thoughts were those wild flowery thoughts that

linger not on earth. A quiet goodness beam'd amid the beauty of her face, And all she said and did was with its own instinctive grace; She seem’d as if she thought the world a good and pleasant

one, And her light spirit saw no ill in aught beneath the sun. I've dream'd of just such creatures, but they never met my

view, 'Mid the sober dull reality in their earthly form and hue, And her smile came gently o’er me like spring's first scented

airs, And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares,


I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays, But the thought of her comes o'er me with my own lost

sunny days, With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant

things That have


of all the earth, on Time's resist

gone the

less wings.


The author of this spirited Irish Ballad was Dr. DRENNAN, one of the ablest of the writers among the United Irishmen. His songs were esteemed by Moore as almost the best of modern lyrics. Orr, wbose wake is here celebrated, was a young Presbyterian farmer of Antrim, who was executed under circumstances of harshness amounting almost to cruelty, for participation in the insurrection of 1798.

HERE our murdered brother lies ;
Wake him not with women's cries.
Mourn the way that manhood ought;
Sit in silent trance of thought.
Write his merits on your mind;
Morals pure and manners kind;
In his head, as on a hill,
Virtue placed her citadel.
Why cut off in palmy youth?
Truth he spoke, and acted truth.
Countrymen, UNITE, he cried,
And died- for what his Saviour died.

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God of Peace, and God of Love,
Let it not thy vengeance move,
Let it not thy lightnings draw;
A Nation guillotined by law.
Hapless Nation ! rent and torn,
Thou wert early taught to mourn,
Warfare of six hundred years !
Epochs mark'd with blood and tears !


Hunted through thy native grounds,
Or flung reward to human hounds;
Each one pull’d and tore his share,
Heedless of thy deep despair.
Hapless Nation-hapless Land,
Heap of uncementing sand !
Crumbled by a foreign weight;
And by worse-domestic hate.

God of mercy! God of peace !
Make the mad confusion cease;
O'er the mental chaos move,
Through it SPEAK the light of love.
Monstrous and unhappy sight!
Brothers' blood will not unite;
Holy oil and holy water
Mix, and fill the world with slaughter.

Who is she with aspect wild ?
The widow'd mother with her child,
Child new stirring in the womb!
Husband waiting for the tomb !

Angel of this sacred place,
Calm her soul and whisper peace;
Cord, or axe, or guillotin?
Make the sentence-not the sin.

Here we watch our brother's sleep;
Watch with us, but do not weep;
Watch with us through dead of night,
But expect the morning light.
Conquer fortune-persevere !
Lo ! 'it breaks, the morning clear!
The cheerful cock awakes the skies,
The day is come-arise !-arise !



Better for man,
Were he and Nature more familiar friends!
His part is worst that touches this base world.
Although the ocean's inmost heart be pure,
Yet the salt fringe that daily licks the shore
with sand.



Art sick ?-art sad ?-art angry with the world ?
Do all friends fail thee? Why, then, give thyself
Unto the forests and the ambrosial fields:
Commerce with them, and with the eternal sky.
Despair not, fellow. He who casts himself
On Nature's fair full bosom, and draws food,
Drinks from a fountain that is never dry.
The Poet haunts there: Youth that ne'er grows old
Dwells with her and her flowers; and Beauty sleeps
In her most green recesses, to be found
By all who seek her truly,



Some feelings are to mortals given,
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek,
It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head.

SIR W. Scott.


Oh, if there be one bour, which more Than any other craves a parent's presence, 'Tis that which gives his child away from him! She should go with his blessing warm upon her breathed With an attesting kiss; then may she go With perfect hope, and cheerly take with her The benisons of all kind wishers else!


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