He bleeds...oh! save the tender blossom!

I hear his agonizing cries—

I see his lacerated bosom !

Hark! did you hear my William's call?
I see him on that vapour sailing!

He dwells in yonder cloud-built hall

Perhaps he grieves to hear me wailing.

Come, gentle spirit of my love!

(If thou dost think on wretched Mary) Oh! guide me to thy hall above!—

Of this distracted life I'm weary.

He comes !...his god-like form I see.!

That heav'nly smile forbids my weeping

My struggling soul will soon be free

The maids may come...they'll find me sleeping!"

While summer linger'd on the plain,

Thus Mary mourn'd her fallen hero ;

Thus during sober autumn's reign,

She nightly pour'd the song of

But winter's angry tempest rose,

sorrow:

Wide o'er the hills the snow come sweeping

At length poor Mary found repose

The maidens came, and found her sleeping!

Beneath yon abbey's awful gloom,

Where rises many a peaceful dwelling,

I visit hapless Mary's tomb,

While in my eyes the tears are swelling

Soft be thy slumber, gentle maid!

Thy earthly cares are hush'd for ever'; Yet thou shalt rise, in smiles array'd,

And join thy love, no more to sever.

THE MAID OF THE MILL.

TUNE." The Flowers of the Forest."

FAIR bloom the wild flowers, amid these green bowers,
Light-bound the young lambs, void of care, on the hill;
The beams of the morning the heights are adorning,
And clear thro' the valley meanders the rill:
The small birds are chaunting, while deeply lamenting
I brood o'er my sorrows... ye warblers be still!

Your songs once could cheer me, but now seem to jeer me,
Since I am denied by the maid of the mill.

How blest out of measure! transported with pleasure!
Her words I believ'd, and fed hope on her smile;
Her smiles were deceitful...for she, most ungrateful!
With cold-blooded malice but strove to beguile;
Now hope is departed, I stray broken-hearted,

While echo returns my complaint from the hill,
I tell the grey mountain, the grove, and the fountain,
How I was betray'd by the maid of the mill.

Tho' bountiful nature, in stamping each feature,
Of this witching female, exerted her skill ;
Her angelic face is the chief of her graces—

I've found her as false as the demons of hell.

Oh! falsehood detested!...she vow'd... she protested,...
Yet never intended those vows to fulfil;

Ye swains learn to fly her, for if you come nigh her,
Like me you may sigh for the maid of the mill.

THE EXILE.

TUNE" Flowers of the Forest."

In youth's happy season, when first dawning reason
Enlighten'd this bosom...what pleasures were mine!
While Nan sweetly smiling, my cares all beguiling,

How blest have I stray'd on the banks of the Boyne!" But all earthly pleasures are "fast fading treasures,”

We grasp them...when lo! they are fled like a dream---A stranger to gladness...the prey of deep sadness

Heart-broken, I roam far from Boyne's rapid stream.

Oh! why recollection, dost thou each attraction
Display, which my dear native vallies possest!
Or why does sweet Nancy appear to my fancy,
In all her allurements, and mild graces drest?
Such thoughts whet the arrow of soul-piercing sorrow,
Yet mem❜ry unceasing pursues her sad theme,
While exil'd for ever, I never, oh! never!
Again shall return to the Boyne's rapid stream!

WINDING SUIR. 13

TUNE-"'Twas past one o' Clock."

WHY throbs my heart when I view the mountain ?

Why from my bosom escapes the sigh?

Why am I sad by the bubbling fountain,
The well known scenes of my early joy?
There first young Phelim beheld, and lov'd me,
Few swains e'er lov'd with a flame so pure-

But oh! distraction...misled by faction

He left me weeping by winding Suir.