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Milder yet thy snowy breezes
Pour on yonder tented shores ;*
Or the dark brown Danube roars.
To many a deep and dying groan!
At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
May spare the victim fallen low;
No bounds to human woe.
THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.
Oh! leave this barren spot to me-
Thrice twenty summers I have stood
• This Ole was written in Germany at the chest of the year 1800, hefore the conclusion of hostilities.
And on my trunk's surviving frame
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sung truce—for the night-cloud had lowered
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw ;
And twice ere the cock-crow I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I few to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sohbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
"Stay—stay with us !-rest!—thou art weary and worn :*
(And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;) But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away!
STANZAS TO PAINTING.
O thou, by whose expressive art,
Her perfect image Nature sees
And sweeter by reflection please!
In whose creative hand the hues
Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;
And call thee brightest of the Nine!
Possessing more than vocal power,
Persuasive more than poet's tongue,
From Love, the lord of nature, sprung.
Docs Hope his high possession meet?
Is Joy triumphant, Sorrow flown?
When all we love is all our own.
But 0 ! thou pulse of pleasure dear
Slow throbbing-cold—I feel thee part;
Or death inflicts a keener dart.
• Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of Painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of ber lover's profile on the wall, as he lay aslcep.
Then for a beam of joy to light
In memory's sad and wakeful cye! Or banish from the noon of night
Her dreams of deeper agony.
Shall song its witching cadence roll!
Yea, even the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to sonl,
And heart to heart responsive beat?
What visions wake! to charm-to melt!
The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! 0! hush that strain too deeply felt!
And cease that solace too severe !
But thou serenely silent art!
By heaven and love was taught to lend A milder solace to the heart,
The sacred image of a friend.
All is not lost! if yet possessed,
To me that sweet memorial shine :If, close and closer to my breast,
I hold that idol all divine.
Or, gazing through luxurious tears,
Melt o'er the loved, departed form, Till death's cold image half appears
With life, and speech, and spirit warm.
She looks—she lives—this tranced hour,
Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power,
Or glory's wealthy diadem.
Yes, genius, yes! thy mimic aid
A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty's canonized shade
Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven.
No spectre forms of pleasure fled,
Thy softening, sweetening tints restore;
E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.
Then blest be nature's guardian muse,
Whose hand her perished grace redeems!
The mirror of creation seems.
From love began thy high descent;
And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,
And call thee brightest of the Nine!
THE EXILE OF ERIN.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ;
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
“Sad is my fate !" said the heart-broken stranger,
“ The wild deer and wolf to a cover 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 lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours ; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh.