Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, Oh! then remember me.

Oh! because it speaks like thee. All that's sweet, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

WHY DOES AZURE DECK THE SKY?

WHY does azure deck the sky?

'Tis to be like thine eyes of blue; Why is red the rose's dye?

Because it is thy blushes' hue. All that's fair, by Love's decree, Has been made resembling thee!

Why is falling snow so white,

But to be like thy bosom fair? Why are solar beams so bright?

That they may seem thy golden hair!
All that's bright, by Love's decree,
Has been made resembling thee!

Why are Nature's beauties felt?
Oh! 'tis thine in her we see!
Why has music power to melt?

the shade,

Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;

Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,

As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,

Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE. WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame

Of a life that for thee was resigned? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earli est love;

Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine. Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THE HARP THAT ONCE
THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE 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.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY 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 played
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?