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“ Ye are brothers ! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save :-
So peace instead of death let us bring :
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our King.”—


Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose ;-
As death withdrew his shades from the day,
While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.


Now joy, old England, raise !
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !


Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant good Riou :*

• Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good hy Lori Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches.

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave !-


A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry.

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water ?” “Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

6: And fast before her father's men

Three day's we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

“ His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover ?"

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,

“I'll go, my chief—I'm ready :It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady:

" And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking ;* And in the scowl of heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

« Oh, haste thee, haste !" the lady cries,

Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies ;

But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade

His child he did discover :-
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

i Come back! come back !” he cried, in grief,

“ Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter I-oh my daughter!"

'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing :-
The waters wild went o'er his child-

And he was left lamenting.

* The evil spirit of the waters.





Oh ! once the harp of Innisfail *
Was strung full high to notes of gladness;
But yet it often told a tale
Of more prevailing sadness.
Sad was the note, and wild its fall,
As winds that moan at night forlorn
Along the isles of Fion-Gall,
When, for O'Connor's child to mourn,
The harper told, how lone, how far
From any pansion's twinkling star,
From any path of social men,
Or voice, but from the fox's den,
The lady in the desert dwelt;
And yet no wrongs, no fears she felt :
Say, why should dwell in place so wild,
O'Connor's pale and lovely child ?


Sweet lady! she no more inspires
Green Erin's hearts with beauty's power,
As, in the palace of her sires,
She bloomed a peerless flower.
Gone from her hand and bosom, gone,
The royal brooch, the jewelled ring,
That o'er her dazzling whiteness shone,
Like dews on lilies of the spring.
Yet why, though fallen her brothers' kerne,t
Beneath De Bourgo's battle stern,
While yet in Leinster unexplored,
Her friends survive the English sword ;


† Ancient Irish foot-soldiers.

Why lingers she from Erin's host,
So far on Galway's shipwrecked coast ;
Why wanders she a huntress wild-
O'Connor's pale and lovely child ?


And fixed on empty space, why burn
Her eyes with momentary wildness ;
And wherefore do they then return
To more than wornan's mildness ?
Dishevelled are ber raven locks;
On Connocht Moran's name she calls ;
And oft amidst the lonely rocks
She sings sweet madrigals.
Placed ’midst the foxglove and the moss,
Behold a parted warrior's cross !
That is the spot where, evermore,
The lady, at her shieling * door,
Enjoys that, in communion sweet,
The living and the dead can meet,
For, lo! to love-lorn fantasy,
The hero of her heart is nigh.


Bright as the bow that spans the storm,
In Erin's yellow vesture clad, 41
A son of light-a lovely form,
He comes and makes her glad ;
Now on the grass-green turf he sits,
His tasselled horn beside him laid;
Now o'er the hills in chase he flits,
The hunter and the deer a shade!
Sweet mourner! these are shadows vain
That cross the twilight of her brain ;
Yet she will tell you, she is blest,
Of Connocht Moran's tomb possessed,

* Cabin.

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