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"Ere night is over,

"Whether thy love loves thee or no, "Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going, "With blossoms round me blowing, "From thence, oh Father, "This leaf I gather,

"Fairest that there is growing.

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Say, by what sign I now shall know "If in this leaf lie bliss or woe;

"And thus discover,

"Ere night is over,

"Whether my love loves me or no,
"Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling,
"Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling,
"Dip in its water

"That leaf, oh Daughter,

"And mark the tale 'tis telling;1
"Watch thou if pale or bright it grow,
"List thou, the while, that fountain's flow,
"And thou'lt discover
"Whether thy lover,
"Lov'd as he is, loves thee or no,
"Lov'd as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted,
To seek that fount benighted;

But, scarce a minute
The leaf lay in it,

When, lo, its bloom was blighted!
And as she ask'd, with voice of woe-
List'ning, the while, that fountain's flow -

Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay-leaf and dipping it into the sacred water.

I

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A HUNTER Once in that grove reclin'd
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he woo'd the wandering wind,
To cool his brow with its sigh.
While mute lay ev'n the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still "Sweet air, oh come!"
While Echo answer'd, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise!
What meaneth that rustling spray?
""Tis the white-horn'd doe," the Hunter cries,
"I have sought since break of day."
Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs,
The arrow flies from his sounding bow,
Hilliho-hilliho!" he gaily sings,

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While Echo sighs forth" Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horn'd doe
He saw in the rustling grove,
But the bridal veil, as pure as snow,
Of his own young wedded love.
And, ah, too sure that arrow sped,
For pale at his feet he sees her lie
"I die, I die," was all she said,

;

While Echo murmur'd, "I die, I die!"

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A WOUNDED Chieftain, lying
By the Danube's leafy side,
Thus faintly said, in dying,

"Oh! bear, thou foaming tide, "This gift to my lady-bride." "Twas then, in life's last quiver, He flung the scarf he wore Into the foaming river,

Which, ah too quickly, bore
That pledge of one no more!
With fond impatience burning,
The Chieftain's lady stood,
To watch her love returning
In triumph down the flood,
From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated!

The lady saw, instead

Of the bark whose speed she waited, Her hero's scarf, all red

With the drops his heart had shed.

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"TWAS midnight dark,
The seaman's bark,

Swift o'er the waters bore him,
When, through the night,
He spied a light

Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;

"She comes from the Indian shore, "And to-night shall be our prize, "With her freight of golden ore. "Sail on! sail on!" When morning shone

He saw the gold still clearer;
But, though so fast

The waves he pass'd,

That boat seem'd never the nearer.

Bright daylight came,

And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
While on the prize
His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doated:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
While the waves o'ertop the mast;
And his bounding galley flies,
Like an arrow before the blast.

Thus on, and on,
Till day was gone,

THE STRANGER.

COME list, while I tell of the heart-wounded

Stranger

Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted

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THESE verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poctry, which has cost but little labour to the writer, is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers, with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, monopoly." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation and music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.

MELOLOGUE.

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

THERE breathes a language, known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,
That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,

Where oft, of old, on some high tow'r, The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains, And call'd his distant love with such sweet pow'r, That, when she heard the lonely lay,

Not

worlds could keep her from his arms away.
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,
And sings along the length ning waste of snow,
Gaily as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phœbus burn'd upon his brow;
Oh Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea
To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides
Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

1 "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but s cried out, For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot

refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'" Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Faul Rycaut's translation.

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