The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, chang'd in all save thee
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts ;- not so thou,
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-
Time writes no wrinkle in thine azure brow-
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where th' Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convuls'd-in breeze, or gale, or storm
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime,
The image of eternity—the throne
Of the Invisible ;-even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless,

alone.

And I have lov'd thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers—they to me
Were a delight; and if the fresh'ning sea

D3

Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here.

THE MANIAC'S SONG.

ANONYMOUS.

Bring me a garland, bring me a wreath ;

Bring me a flower from the dank stream side; Bring me an herb smelling sweetly of death,

Wet with the drowsy tide.

Haste to the pool with the green-weed breast,

Where the dark wave crawls through the sedge; Where the bittern of the wilderness builds her nest

In the flags of its oozy edge ;

Where no sun shines through the livelong day,

Because of the blue-wreath'd mist, Where the cockatrice creeps her foul egg to lay,

And the speckled snake has hiss'd :

And bring me the flag that is moist with the wave,

And the rush where the heath-winds sigh, And the hemlock plant that flourishes so brave,

And the poppy, with its coal-black eye ;

And weave them tightly, and weave them well,

The fever of my head to allay ; And soon shall I faint with the death-weed smell,

And sleep these throbbings away.

And my hot, hot heart, that is fluttering so fast,

Shall shudder with a strange, cold thrill ;

And the damp hand of death o'er my forehead

shall be pass'd,
And my lips shall be stiff and still.

And crystals of ice on my bosom shall arise,

Prest out from the shivering pore ;
And oft shall it struggle with pent-up sighs,

But soon it shall struggle no more.

For the poppy on my head shall her cool breath

shed, And wind through the blue, blue tide ; And the bony wand of Death shall draw my last

breath, All by the dank stream side.

THE MAD MAID'S SONG.

ROBERT HERRICK.

Good-morrow to the day so fair!

Good morning, Sir, to you !
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,

Bedabbled with the dew !

Good-morning to this primrose too!

Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew

Wherein my love is laid !

I'll seek bim there! I know, ere this,

The cold, cold earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, Sir, to awake him.

Pray, hurt him not! tho' he be dead,

He knows well who do love him ;
And who with green turfs rear his head,

And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender-pray, take heed !

With bands of cowslips bind him;
And bring him homembut 'tis decreed

That I shall never find him!

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

CAMPBELL.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin;

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight re

pairing, To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eyes' sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

“ Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger,

“ The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet

hours; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.

“ Erin, my country! tho' sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ;

But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no

more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase

me!

Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

“ Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all ? Ah! my sad heart, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ! Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure ;

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall,

" Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an Exile bequeaths thee his bles !

Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with de-

votion,
Erin, mavournin, Erin-go-bragh !" *,

THE FUGITIVE.

MRS ROBINSON.

Oft have I seen yon solitary man
Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow

* 1.e. Ireland, my darling; Ireland for ever.