Stay-stay with us!-rest!-thou art weary and worn!" (And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!

STANZAS TO PAINTING.

O THOU, by whose expressive art,
Her perfect image Nature sees
In union with the Graces start,
And sweeter by reflection please!

In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;

I bless thee, Promethean Muse!
And call thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue,
Whose lineage, in a raptured hour,*

From Love, the lord of nature, sprung.

Docs Hope his high possession meet?
Is Joy triumphant, Sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,
When all we love is all our own.

But O! thou pulse of pleasure dear

Slow throbbing-cold-I feel thee part;

Lone absence plants a pang severe,
Or death inflicts a keener dart.

Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of Painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep.

Then for a beam of joy to light

In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony.

Shall song its witching cadence roll?
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat,
That breathed when soul was knit to soul,
And heart to heart responsive beat?

What visions wake! to charm-to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead are near!
O! hush that strain too deeply felt!
And cease that solace too severe !

But thou serenely silent art!

By heaven and love was taught to lend

A milder solace to the heart,

The sacred image of a friend.

All is not lost! if yet possessed,

To me that sweet memorial shine :-
If, close and closer to my breast,
I hold that idol all divine.

Or, gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt o'er the loved, departed form,
Till death's cold image half appears
With life, and speech, and spirit warm.

She looks she lives-this tranced hour, Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or glory's wealthy diadem.

Yes, genius, yes! thy mimic aid

A treasure to my soul has given,

Where beauty's canonized shade

Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.

No spectre forms of pleasure fled,

Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;
For thou canst give us back the dead,
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.

Then blest be nature's guardian muse,
Whose hand her perished grace redeems!
Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems.

From love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent;

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

THE 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 sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger,
"The wild deer and wolf to a cover 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 wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreains 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! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me! Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me, or live 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?
Ah my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure!—
Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

"Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his 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 !"

GERMAN DRINKING SONG.

SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm,
And flowery fountains mine;
Thy waters I would shade with clm,
To prop the tender vine.

* Ireland, my darling Ireland for ever.

My golden flagons I would fill

With rosy draughts from every hill

;

And under each green spreading bower,

My gay companions should prolong
The feast, the revel, and the song,
To many a sportive hour.

Like rivers crimsoned by the beam
Oi yonder planet bright,

Our nectar cups should ever stream
Profusion of delight!

No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart,

(For wine can triumph over woe ;)
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers,
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers
A Paradise below!

LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 40

WIZARD.

LOCHIEL, Lochiel! beware of the day,

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.-
But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.