Ere many days I met a maid,
Whose eyes of heavenly flame,
Such pure and living lightnings played,
That, o'er my soul there came
A torrent of celestial fire,

That burned with such wild glow,
That all my spirit was desire;

Then felt my own heart's woe.

I loved her, wooed her, won her heart;
And when that heart was given,
I thought the earth in every part,
Was sure a part of heaven.
But soon adown her gentle cheek
Some silent tears did flow,

Which uttered what she ne'er would speak,-
Some secret, bosom woe.

I asked what ailed her; then her eyes
Glowed through her flowing tears,
Like two lone stars, in evening skies,
As twilight disappears.

Then learned I that in the pure heart,
As pure as beats below,

There always is reserved a part,

To feel some pang of woe.

There is no heart without a throe,

His last great debt is paid-Poor Tom's no more:— Last debt! Tom never paid a debt before!

"AWAY WITH THE ASPECT OF SORROW."

A SONG.

Away with the aspect of sorrow,
Away with reflection to-night;
Let it come in its darkness to-morrow,
But, oh! let this moment be bright:
Our spirits to rapture are mounting,
Unheeding lite's desolate way,

We are come to the desert's lone fountain,
And here we will rest while we may;
For Time with his light wing is stealing,
And destiny hurries us on,

And the pleasures our warm hearts are feeling,
Before we can bless them are gone.

Fill the cup! there is magic within it,
Bids happiness bloom in the soul;
There are some spend a life but to win it,
But to us it shall flow from the bowl;
There is nought has an influence so cheering;
'Twill give Hope its most exquisite hue,
And Friendship shall seem more endearing,
And Love be more fervent and true:
The light in the rosy wine sparkling,
Shall kindle a ray in the heart,

And the clouds that our pathway are darkling,
Shall melt in its beam and depart.

Like the dew, which the spring blossom blesses,
Like the rays of the sun to the flowers,

Like the rapture of lover's caresses,

Are these hallowed moments of ours:
They cannot be robb'd of their sweetness,
By the deepest of sadness or care;
There is nought to regret but the fleetness
Of moments so cloudless and fair:
But away with the aspect of sorrow,
Away with reflection to-night;
Who cares for the griefs of to-morrow,

While the bowl lends our bosoms its light?

CHRISTOPHER.

THE HARP OF INNISFAIL.

BY D. S. L.

A volume of poems, under the above title, has just appeared. The author is already known to our readers by several very delightful pieces with which he has honored our pages. The Harp of Innisfail is the first production that has brought D. S. L. before the bar of criticism; and we have no doubt of his receiving a very creditable verdict from the judges of that court.

The Harp of Innisfail consists of the Legend of the Lakes, the Geraldine, and minor poems. The first occupies more than half the volume, and is divided into five parts-the Legend; the Stag Hunt; the Banquet; the Abbey; and the Battle. It is chiefly intended as an illustration of the beautiful scenery of the lakes of Killarney, which it describes in the most fascinating language, The second poem, the Geraldine, is perhaps the most finished of the whole it is founded on the following incident:

"The complaints of the Butlers induced Henry to call the deputy to London, and to confine him to the Tower. At his departure the reins of government dropped into the hands of his son, the lord Thomas, a young man in his 21st year, generous, violent, and brave. His credulity was deceived by a false report that his father had been beheaded and his resentment urged him to the fatal resolution of bidding defiance to his sovereign. At the head of one hundred and forty followers he presented himself before the council: resigned the sword of state, the emblem of his authority; and, in a loud tone, declared war against Henry the Eighth, king of England. Cramer, Archbishop of Armagh, catching him by the hand, most earnestly besought him not to plunge himself and his family into irremediable ruin; but the voice of the prelate was drowned in the strains of an Irish minstrel, who, in his native tongue, called on the hero to revenge the blood of his father; and the precipitate youth, unfurling the standard of rebellion, commenced his career with laying waste the rich district of Fingal. A gleam of success cast a temporary lustre on his arms; and his revenge was gratified with the punishment of the supposed accuser of his father, Allen, Archbishop of Dublin, who was surprised and put to death by the Geraldines."

Our limits will not permit us to extract from the foregoing; but the following, from the minor pieces, cannot but be read with interest, and must impress the reader with the most favorable opinion of the high poetical merits of the volume.

I STOOD BY THE GRAVE.

I stood by the grave, and the dark night came
From its evening couch of faded flame;
The blue stars shed their silver ray

On a form more brief and pale than they :
I stood on the grave, and I thought how soon
From its sleep should welcome the "

The ivy shook, as the wild bat fled

lady moon."

On its path of night, o'er the voiceless dead;
The willows waved to the sullen blast,
That sadly across the red tombs passed;
And weeping over my kindred clay,

I stood by the grave were my fathers lay.

I stood by the grave, 'mid the wailing moans,
That whispered over the bleaching bones:
I stood by the grave, 'mid the flowers that grew,
Rank and wild, 'neath that poisonous dew;

I stood by the grave, and I wished that the breeze
Should thus blow on me, when I slept like these?

I stood by the grave, and my young heart felt
Its hopes and its fears together melt,
How the bliss of life, which I loved so well,
Had vanished, I could not, I could not tell;
But I felt that my spirit soon should be
Straying in light through heaven's blue sea.

I stood by the grave, and I turned away
From all that on earth could woo my stay,
In the diademed world my place was high,
'Mid the full of heart and the bright of eye;
But I felt that I soon should leave them all,
For the charnel's feast and the death-worm's hall.

Oh! there are many, and fond and gay,
Who will weep my spirit when passed away;
And they will think how I have been

Thoughtless as ought of their thoughtless scene:
Yet, I stood by the grave, and I only sighed
For the hour that should tell them-that I had died!

I deemed that my manhood one violet path
Of life may have, as my boyhood hath ;
But a festering curse has blighted me,

Ere the blossom had dropped from the withered tree;
Still I stood by the grave, and I wished that I,
In its putrid bed, could meekly lie.

I stood by the grave-a single hour-
And methought 'twould make a pleasant bower.
For willow, and cypress, and rosemary,

A chaplet fresh should weave for me;

And my nuptial feast the worms should share ;
Quaffing their draughts from the white skulls there!

AN EVENING DREAM.

'Twas one of those evenings, when poets will feel
Their spirit grow bright with the visions of song,
When drunk with the light that its fancies reveal,
They bid echo the burst of their music prolong.

"Twas one of those evenings, all splendor and peace,
When the present is lost in the prospects that come,
As the day-king goes smiling to Dian's embrace,
To find in the heart their most exquisite home.

And I stood on thy shore, Innisfallen, sweet isle!
Forgetting that ever my spirit had known

Other light than the light from thy old Abbey pile,
Other voice than the voice from my own wild harp gone.

And that moment, entranced in thy glories, I sighed
A wish to the heaven that canopies earth;

And it seemed as if echo, exulting, replied

That her own mountain spirit should bear that wish forth.