WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again.

Weep on-perhaps in after days

They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruin'd Isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate "Your web of discord wove;

* And while your tyrants join'd in hate, "You never join'd in love.

"But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, "And man profan'd what God had given; "Till some were heard to curse the shrine, "Where others knelt to heaven!"

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;

Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it.

iOh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,

But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes-
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh! my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, though bright,
Hath no such light,

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,
And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee, Mary!1

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, "Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam meminisse !"

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.'

BY that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,2
Where the cliff hangs high and steep
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-
Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

"A type, that blends "Three godlike friends, "Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!"