EPITAPH.

By every lofty theme

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Whereon, in low-toned reverence we have spoken; By our communion in each fervent dream

That sought from realms beyond the grave a token;

And by our tears for those

Whose loss hath touch'd our world with hues of death;

And by the hopes that with their dust repose, As flowers await the south-wind's vernal breath:

Come to me in that day—

The one-the sever'd from all days-O friend! Even then, if human thought may then have sway, My soul with thine shall yet rejoice to blend.

Nor then, nor there alone:

I ask my heart if all indeed must die;
All that of holiest feelings it hath known?
And my heart's voice replies-Eternity!

EPITAPH.

FAREWELL, beloved and mourn'd! we miss awhile Thy tender gentleness of voice and smile,

And that bless'd gift of Heaven, to cheer us lent-
That thrilling touch, divinely eloquent,

Which breathed the soul of prayer, deep, fervent, high,
Through thy rich strains of sacred harmony;
Yet from those very memories there is born.
A soft light, pointing to celestial morn.
Oh! bid it guide us where thy footsteps trode,
To meet at last "the pure in heart" with God!

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF FIESCO,

AS TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER, BY COLONEL D'AGUILAR, AND PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, DUBLIN, DECEMBER 1832.

Too long apart, a bright but sever'd band,
The mighty minstrels of the Rhine's fair land,
Majestic strains, but not for us, had sung,-
Moulding to melody a stranger tongue.
Brave hearts leap'd proudly to their words of power,
As a true sword bounds forth in battle's hour;
Fair eyes rain'd homage o'er the impassion'd lays,
In loving tears, more eloquent than praise;
While we, far distant, knew not, dream'd not aught
Of the high marvels by that magic wrought.

But let the barriers of the sea give way,
When mind sweeps onward with a conqueror's sway!
And let the Rhine divide high souls no more
From mingling on its old heroic shore,

Which, e'en like ours, brave deeds through many

an age

Have made the Poet's own free heritage!

To us, though faintly, may a wandering tone
Of the far minstrelsy at last be known;

Sounds which the thrilling pulse, the burning tear,
Have sprung to greet, must not be strangers here.
And if by one, more used on march and heath
To the shrill bugle than the muse's breath,
With a warm heart the offering hath been brought,
And in a trusting loyalty of thought

TO GIULIO REGONDI.

YE HOURS.

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So let it be received!-a soldier's hand
Bears to the breast of no ungenerous land
A seed of foreign shores. O'er this fair clime,
Since Tara heard the harp of ancient time,
Hath song held empire; then, if not with fame,
Let the green isle with kindness bless his aim,
The joy, the power, of kindred song to spread,
Where once that harp "the soul of music shed!

TO GIULIO REGONDI,

THE BOY GUITARIST.

BLESSING and love be round thee still, fair boy!
Never may suffering wake a deeper tone,
Than genius now, in its first fearless joy,

Calls forth exulting from the chords which own Thy fairy touch! Oh! may'st thou ne'er be taught The power whose fountain is in troubled thought!

For in the light of those confiding eyes,

And on the ingenuous calm of that clear brow, A dower, more precious e'en than genius lies,

A pure mind's worth, a warm heart's vernal glow! God, who hath graced thee thus, oh, gentle child, Keep 'midst the world thy brightness undefiled!

O YE HOURS.

O YE hours! ye sunny hours!
Floating lightly by,

Are ye come with birds and flowers, Odours and blue sky?

"Yes, we come, again we come,
Through the wood-paths free;
Bringing many a wanderer home,
With the bird and bee."

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
Are ye wafting song?

Doth wild music stream in showers,
All the groves among?

"Yes, the nightingale is there

While the starlight reigns, Making young leaves and sweet air Tremble with her strains."

O ye hours! ye sunny hours!
In your silent flow,

Ye are mighty, mighty powers!

Bring ye bliss or woe?

"Ask not this-oh! seek not this!

Yield your hearts awhile

To the soft wind's balmy kiss,

And the heavens' bright smile.

"Throw not shades of anxious thought O'er the glowing flowers!

We are come with sunshine fraught, Question not the hours!"

THE FREED BIRD.

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THE FREED BIRD.

RETURN, return, my bird!

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers, 'Tis lovely as a violet bank

In the heart of forest bowers.

"I am free, I am free-I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er;
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me-the blue bright sky!

"The hills lie beneath me, spread far and clear,
With their growing heath-flowers and bounding deer,
I see the waves flash on the sunny shore-
I am free, I am free-I return no more!"

Alas, alas! my bird!

Why seek'st thou to be free?

Wert thou not bless'd in thy little bower,
When thy song breathed nought but glee?

"Did my song of the summer breathe nought but glee?
Did the voice of the captive seem sweet to thee?
-O! hadst thou known its deep meaning well,
It had tales of a burning heart to tell!

"From a dream of the forest that music sprang, Through its notes the peal of a torrent rang; And its dying fall, when it sooth'd thee best, Sigh'd for wild-flowers and a leafy nest."