I wake from my trance!-lo! the Sun is declin ing! And the Black-mount afar in his lustre is shining. -One soft golden gleam ere the twilight prevail ! Then down let me sink to the cot in the dale, Where sings the fair maid to the viol so sweet, Or the floor is alive with her white twinkling feet, Down, down like a bird to the depth of the dell ! -Vanish'd Creature! I bid thy fair image farewell! THOMAS MOORE. SONG. THERE's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its music I never forget; But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, I think is the nightingale singing there yet? Are the roses still bright by the calm Bende meer? No; the roses are withered that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered while freshly they shone ; And a dew was distilled from their flowers that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight ere it dies An essence that breathes of it many a year; Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. FROM THE IRISH MELODIES. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying! She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, He had lived for his love, for his country he died; They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him! Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, west, From her own loved island of sorrow! FROM THE IRISH MELODIES. I SAW thy(a) form in youthful prime, Would steal before thy steps of time, As streams that run o'er golden mines Nor seem to know the wealth that shines So veiled beneath a simple guise If souls could always dwell above, We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! To live with them is far less sweet (a) These beautiful stanzas are believed to have been composed on the death of the poetess, Mrs Tighe. THE ARAB MAID. FLY to the desert, fly with me, Our rocks are rough, but smiling there Our sands are bare, but down their slope As gracefully and gaily springs Then come-thy Arab maid will be Oh there are looks and tones that dart As if the very lips and eyes So came thy every glance and tone, Then fly with me,-if thou hast known Come, if the love thou hast for me But if for me thou dost forsake Then, fare thee well-I'd rather make MUTABILITY OF LOVE. ALAS!-how light a cause may move (a) The hudhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the power of discovering water under ground. Y |