To a withered Branch of Sweetbriar dropt by
Miss

[These lines were intended for music. See the Air, "If thou'lt be mine," &c. in the 7th Number of Moore's "Irish Melodies."]

I.

I WISH Some fay, with her magic wand,

When thou wert plucked, fair branch! had been

near;

And 'stead of thee in the snowy hand

Of that lady bright, had set me there—
'Twere a blissful fate to have perished so!

II.

For did I not see thee drink her breath,

More sweet than thine odors were; and sip

The fragrant dew from the rosy wreath
That hung in its bloom, around her lip,

Which spoke thee blessed to have perished so!

III.

And basked ye not in her sunny eye

While richly thy perfume courted her sense?— Then, thou'rt a proud thing that would'st not die, Possessed of a nobler recompence

Than all bright forms that have perished so!

IV.

Oh! had there but been some favoring Power
Then wafted by on its sparkling wing;

I'd have heaped on its shrine, each odorous flower-
And to be but as thou, ungrateful thing!

Would have smiled in joy, while I perished so!

V.

Yet, fed from such founts, how could'st thou die? Good faith, thou hadst all that in life is best; And how did thy spirit dare to fly

From the tremulous heave of that gentle breastMethinks I should not have perished so!

VI.

And thou, if still thy home had been there,

Would'st have lived, nor lost thy fragrant breath;

But, cast aside by the scornful fair,

'Twas that which alone produced thy death,

And, sooth to say, I had perished so!

VII.

But fare thee well; though withered thou art,
And forgotten by her, fair branch!-thou'st been
What wakes our envy, and in my heart

Thou shalt bloom in thy freshest, fairest green,
And my verse proclaim why ye perished so!

April 16th, 1822.

Fragment of a Ballad on the New Year.

"Ring out the bels, plucke up your spreets,

"And dress your houses gaie;

"Run in for floures to strew the streets,
"And make what joy you may.”

OLD SONG. 1579%

ANOTHER year hath fleetly gone
To that which went before;
And hearts the bright sun shone upou
Now feel its shine no more.

Excellent ones have passed away,
And eyes that smiled not then,
For very bitterness-Oh! they
Laugh now on living men.

The fresh mould-'tis not long ago-
Was heaped on bosoms dear;
We scarcely turned, and lo ye now!
The long grass groweth here.

Love hath been owned, and many a heart

Hath wept at love's decay;

The tear-drop fell, and past-the smart Died with the year away.