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Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores ;*
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,

Or the dark brown Danube roars.
O winds of winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan!
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?
Alas! even your unhallowed breath

May spare the victim fallen low;
But man will ask no truce to death,

No bounds to human woe.

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION.

Oh! leave this barren spot to me-
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.
Though shrub or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial treasure of the hive:
Yet leave this little spot to me-
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

Thrice twenty summers I have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude-
Since childhood in my rustling bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour-
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture paid ;

• 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
Carved many a long-forgotten name:
0! by the vows of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that love hath whispered here,
Or beauty heard with ravished ear:
As love's own altar honour me-
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

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
In union with the Graces start,

And sweeter by reflection please!

In whose creative hand the hues

Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine;
I bless thee, Promethéan Muse !

And call thee brightest of the Nine!

Possessing more than vocal power,

Persuasive more than poet's tongue,
Whose lineage, in a raptured hour, *

From Love, the lord of nature, sprung.

Docs Hope his high possession meet?

Is Joy triumphant, Sorrow flown?
Sweet is the trance, the tremor sweet,

When all we love is all our own.

But 0 ! thou pulse of pleasure dear

Slow throbbing-cold—I feel thee part;
Lone absence plants a pang severe,

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;
For thou canst give us back the dead,

E'en in the loveliest looks they wore.

Then blest be nature's guardian muse,

Whose hand her perished grace redeems!
Whose tablet of a thousand hues

The mirror of creation seems.

From love began thy high descent;

And lovers, charmed by gifts of thine,
Shall bless thee mutely eloquent;

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 ;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing,

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion;
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

“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.

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