Say, fair princess! would it grieve thee 'Christian climes should we behold?'Nay, bold knight! I would not leave thee 'Were thy ransom paid in gold!'

Now in Heaven's blue expansion
Rose the midnight star to view,

When to quit her father's mansion,
Thrice she wept, and bade adieu !

'Fly we then, while none discover!

Tyrant barks, in vain ye ride!'

Soon at Rhodes the British lover

Clasp'd his blooming Eastern bride.

EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE
HERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:

For his country he sigh'd, 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 sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert 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 liv'd, 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 dreams 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?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

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, Green be thy fields-sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo

tion

Erin mavournin!-Erin go bragh! 4

4 Ireland my darling - Ireland for ever.

LINES

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF

VICTORY IN EGYPT.

PLEDGE to the much-lov'd land that gave us birth!
Invincible romantic Scotia's shore!

Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!
And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore !

And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give,
In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh!
Who would not envy such as Moore to live?

And died he not as heroes wish to die?