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, In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine; I bless thee, Promethean Muse! Possessing more than vocal power, From Love, the lord of nature, sprung. Docs Hope his high possession meet? But O! thou pulse of pleasure dear Slow throbbing-cold-I feel thee part; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Alluding to the well-known tradition respecting the origin of Painting, that it arose from a young Corinthian female tracing the shadow of her lover's profile on the wall, as he lay asleep. Then for a beam of joy to light In memory's sad and wakeful eye! Or banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall song its witching cadence roll? What visions wake! to charm-to melt! 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 :- Or, gazing through luxurious tears, 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; Then blest be nature's guardian muse, The mirror of creation seems. From love began thy high descent; And call thee brightest of the Nine! THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin ; "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger, 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. Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreains I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me! Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me, or live to deplore! "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? "Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh! Buried and cold when my heart stills her motion, GERMAN DRINKING SONG. SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm, * Ireland, my darling Ireland for ever. My golden flagons I would fill With rosy draughts from every hill ; And under each green spreading bower, My gay companions should prolong Like rivers crimsoned by the beam Our nectar cups should ever stream No care should touch the mellow heart, (For wine can triumph over woe ;) LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 40 WIZARD. LOCHIEL, Lochiel! beware of the day, When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! |