As then, 't was all thy wish and care,
That mine should be the simplest mien,
My lyre and voice the sweetest there,

My foot the lightest o'er the green :
So still, each look and step to mould,
Thy guardian care is round me spread,
Arranging every snowy fold,

And guiding every mazy tread.
And, when I lead the hymning choir,
Thy spirit still, unseen and free,
Hovers between my lip and lyre,

And weds them into harmony.
Flow, Plistus, flow, thy murmuring wave

Shall never drop its silv'ry tear
Upon so pure, so blest a grave,
To memory so entirely dear!

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

HE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

GAILY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

(MALTESE AIR.)

AILY sounds the castanet,

Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,

Maids and youths by moonlight meet.

Oh, then, how sweet to move

Through all that maze of mirth,

Led by light from eyes we love
Beyond all eyes on earth!

Then, the joyous banquet spread
On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heav'n's bright sparklers overhead,
And still brighter sparkling round.

Oh, then, how sweet to say

Into some loved one's ear,

Thoughts reserved through many a day
To be thus whisper'd here!

When the dance and feast are done,

Arm in arm as home we stray,

How sweet to see the dawning sun

O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!

Then, too, the farewell kiss--

The words, whose parting tone Lingers still in dreams of bliss,

That haunt young hearts alone.

LY not yet, 'tis just the hour,

When pleasure, like the midnight flower

That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon.

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade

That beauty and the moon were made ; "Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain

Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade, Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near.

And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake

As those that sparkle here?