For his country he sighed, 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 fervour of youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh!

"Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger"The wild deer and wolf to the 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 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 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 dote 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 recollections 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 devotion,
Erin Mavournin! Erin go Bragh !"

CAMPBELL.

THE OCEAN.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews; in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean-roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;

Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's
ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields

Are not a spoil for him-thou dost arise

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he

wields

For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering, in thy playful spray,
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,

And dashest him again to earth: there let him lay.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitalsThe oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee— Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, where are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' playTime writes no wrinkle on thine azure browSuch as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
Calm or convuls'd-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

BYRON.

SIN AND DEATH.

Before hell gates there sat

On either side a formidable shape;

The one seem'd woman to the waist, and fair;

But ended foul in many a scaly fold,

Voluminous and vast-a serpent arm'd

With mortal sting. About her middle round,
A cry of hell-hounds never ceasing bark'd
With wide Cerperean mouths full loud, and rung
A hideous peal. Far less abhorr'd than these
Vex'd Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts
Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore;
Nor uglier follow the night hag, when call'd
In secret, riding through the air she comes,
Lur'd with the smell of infant blood, to dance
With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon
Eclipses at their charms. The other shape

(If shape it might be call'd that shape had none
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb;
Or substance might be call'd that shadow seem'd,
For each seem'd either) black it stood as Night,
Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,

And shook a dreadful dart; what seem'd his head
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.

The grisly monster moving onward, came

With horrid strides, Hell trembled as he strode.

MILTON.

HUMAN LIFE.

The lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noontide lullaby;
Still in the vale the village bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jest resound;