Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell

In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one
Who had to turn to paths of care —
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours

To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But thus in shadow, scem'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's, on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng. As letters some hand hath invisibly trac'd,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seem'd effac'd,
The warmth of a moment like this brings to
light.

1 Jours charmans, quand je songe à vos heureux instans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans ;
Et mon cœur, enchanté sur sa rive fleurie,
Respire encore l'air pur du matin de la vie.

2 The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend, Mr. Washington Irving, in his Bracebridge Hall, vol. i. p. 213.

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,
As bending over the stream he lay,
There peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light,
And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

The sincere pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend, is much enhanced by the reflection that he is too good an American, to have admitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him birth, have been long such as every res lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain.

But vain her wish, her weeping vainAs Time too well hath taught herEach year the Fiend returns again,

And dives into that water;

And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation,

DESMOND'S SONG.1

By the Feal's wave benighted,
No star in the skies,

To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.
Some voice whisper'd o'er me,
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,

If I lov'd, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
"Twere welcome again.
Though misery's full measure
My portion should be,

I would drain it with pleasure,
If pour'd out by thee.

You, who call it dishonour
To bow to this flame,
If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

No-Man for his glory
To ancestry flies;

But Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.
While the Monarch but traces
Through mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to Divine!

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Ev'n now, beside that river-

Cawearied still the Fiend returns,
And stor'd is still his quiver.

"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?" She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,
The Demon answer, "Never."

Thomas, the beir of the Desmond family, had accidentally sexgaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, atured to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent |

One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r,
I could harm what I love, -as the sun's wanton
ray

But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No-beaming with light as those young features

are,

[far:

There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier

passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."-Leland, vol. ii.

It is not that cheek -'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear; As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I WISH I was by that dim Lake,'
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,

Deceitful world, my home should be;
Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound

Of unseen waters falling round;

The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead!

These, ay, these shall wean

My soul from life's deluding scene,

And turn each thought, o'ercharg'd with gloom, Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmov'd by either joy or woe,

Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

SHE sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,

As if to feed, with their soft fire,

The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegali (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and interinediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

"It was," as the same writer tells us, "one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep

But soon the West no longer burn'd,
Eash rosy ray from heav'n withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turn'd,
The minstrel's form seem'd fading too.
As if her light and heav'n's were one,
The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came.*

Who ever lov'd, but had the thought
That he and all he lov'd must part?
Fill'd with this fear, flew and caught

The fading image to my heartAnd cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom? "Oh light of youth's resplendent day! "Must ye then lose your golden bloom, "And thus, like sunshine, die away?"

When Love, rock'd by his mother,

Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him, "Hush, hush," said Venus, " no other [him." "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while

Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile, While Love to his own sweet singing awoke. Then sing-sing-Music was given,

To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes.”— Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland.

The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human Life, beginning

"Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly."

I would quote the entire passage, did I not fear to put my own humble imitation of it out of countenance.