We're the sons of sires that baffled
Crowned and mitred tyranny;
They defied the field and scaffold
For their birthrights—so will we!

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad
Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had,
Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast

From hallowed thoughts so dear;

But drink to her that each loves most,

As she would love to hear.

THE HARPER.

ON the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;

No harp like my own could so cheerily play,

And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

THE HARPER.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

279

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart),
O! remember your Sheelah when far, far away:
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray,
And he licked me for kindness- my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful, and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
"O whither!" she cried, "hast thou wandered, my lover,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?

What voice did I hear? 't was my Henry that sighed!" All mournful she hastened, nor wandered she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep marked with a scar!
And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,
That melted in love, and that kindled in war!

How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!
How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!
"Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar?"

"Thou shalt live," she replied, "Heaven's mercy relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!” "Ah no! the last pang of my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,

When he sunk in her arms the poor wounded Hussar !

LOVE AND MADNESS.

AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN 1795.

HARK! from the battlements of yonder tower
The solemn bell has tolled the midnight hour!
Roused from drear visions of distempered sleep,
Poor Bk wakes-in solitude to weep!

"Cease, Memory, cease (the friendless mourner cried) To probe the bosom too severely tried!

O! ever cease, my pensive thoughts, to stray
Through the bright fields of Fortune's better day,
When youthful HOPE, the music of the mind,
Tuned all its charms, and E-

n was kind!

Yet, can I cease, while glows this trembling frame,
In sighs to speak thy melancholy name?

I hear thy spirit wail in every storm!

In midnight shades I view thy passing form!
Pale as in that sad hour when doomed to feel,
Deep in thy perjured heart, the bloody steel!

Demons of Vengeance! ye at whose command
I grasped the sword with more than woman's hand,
Say ye, did Pity's trembling voice control,
Or horror damp the purpose of my soul?
No! my wild heart sat smiling o'er the plan,
Till Hate fulfilled what baffled Love began!

* Warwick Castle.

Yes; let the clay-cold breast that never knew
One tender pang to generous Nature true,
Half-mingling pity with the gall of scorn,
Condemn this heart, that bled in love forlorn!

And ye, proud fair, whose soul no gladness warms, Save rapture's homage to your conscious charms! Delighted idols of a gaudy train,

Ill can your blunter feelings guess the pain,
When the fond faithful heart, inspired to prove
Friendship refined, the calm delight of Love,
Feels all its tender strings with anguish torn,
And bleeds at perjured Pride's inhuman scorn.

Say, then, did pitying Heaven condemn the deed, When Vengeance bade thee, faithless lover, bleed? Long had I watched thy dark foreboding brow, What time thy bosom scorned its dearest vow! Sad, though I wept the friend, the lover changed, Still thy cold look was scornful and estranged, Till from thy pity, love, and shelter thrown, I wandered hopeless, friendless, and alone!

O! righteous Heaven! 't was then my tortured soul First gave to wrath unlimited control!

Adieu the silent look! the streaming eye!

The murmured plaint! the deep heart-heaving sigh!
Long-slumbering Vengeance wakes to bitter deeds;
He shrieks, he falls, the perjured lover bleeds!
Now the last laugh of agony is o'er,

And pale in blood he sleeps, to wake no more!