SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.

ILENCE is in our festal halls,

Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;

In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

Her minstrel's voice responds no more ;—

All silent as th' Eolian shell

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell At sunny morn, hath died away.

Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long,
Awaked by music's spell, shall rise;
For, name so link'd with deathless song,
Partakes its charm and never dies:

And ev'n within the holy fane,

When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echo'd there, shall long be given.

But where is now the cheerful day,

The social night, when, by thy side, He who now weaves this parting lay,

His skill-less voice with thine allied;

And sung those songs whose every tone,

When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still, in sweetness all their own,

Embalm'd by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,

Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came,

And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire

His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.

IGHT sounds the harp when the combat is over,

When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,

And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

But, when the foe returns,
Again the hero burns;

High flames the sword in his hand once more:
The clang of mingling arms

Is then the sound that charms,

And brazen notes of war, that stirring trumpets pour ;Then, again comes the Harp, when the combat is over— When heroes are resting, and Joy is in bloom— When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover, And Cupid makes wings of the warrior's plume.

Light went the harp when the War-God, reclining,
Lay lull'd on the white arm of Beauty to rest,
When round his rich armour the myrtle hung twining,
And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.
But, when the battle came,

The hero's eye breath'd flame:

Soon from his neck the white arm was flung;

While, to his wak’ning ear,

No other sounds were dear

But brazen notes of war, by thousand trumpets sung. But then came the light harp, when danger was ended, And Beauty once more lull'd the War-God to rest ; When tresses of gold with his laurels lay blended,

And flights of young doves made his helmet their nest.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

OOR broken flower! what art can now recover thee?
Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-

In vain the sun-beams seek

To warm that faded cheek;

The dews of heav'n, that once like balm fell over thee,
Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,—
Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou;
In vain the smiles of all

Like sun-beams round her fall;

The only smile that could from death awaken her,
That smile, alas! is gone to others now.