The armaments which thunderstrike the walls These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, Thy shores are empires, chang'd in all save thee- Thou glorious mirror, where th' 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, Of the Invisible ;—even from out thy slime And I have lov'd thee, Ocean! and my joy Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear, And trusted to thy billows far and near, THE MANIAC'S SONG. ANONYMOUS. BRING me a garland, bring me a wreath; Haste to the pool with the green-weed breast, Where the dark wave crawls through the sedge; Where the bittern of the wilderness builds her nest In the flags of its oozy edge; Where no sun shines through the livelong day, Where the cockatrice creeps her foul egg to lay, And bring me the flag that is moist with the wave, And weave them tightly, and weave them well, And soon shall I faint with the death-weed smell, And my hot, hot heart, that is fluttering so fast, Shall shudder with a strange, cold thrill; And the damp hand of death o'er my forehead shall be pass'd, And my lips shall be stiff and still. And crystals of ice on my bosom shall arise, And oft shall it struggle with pent-up sighs, For the poppy on my head shall her cool breath shed, And wind through the blue, blue tide; And the bony wand of Death shall draw my last breath, All by the dank stream side. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. ROBERT HERRICK. GooD-morrow to the day so fair! Good-morning, Sir, to you! Good-morning to this primrose too! I'll seek him there! I know, ere this, But I will go, or send a kiss By you, Sir, to awake him. Pray, hurt him not! tho' he be dead, He's soft and tender-pray, take heed! THE EXILE OF ERIN. CAMPBELL. THERE 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 eyes' sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sung the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, "Erin, my country! tho' 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? "Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Erin, mavournin, Erin-go-bragh!" THE FUGITIVE. MRS ROBINSON. OFT have I seen yon solitary man Pacing the upland meadow. On his brow * i.c. Ireland, my darling; Ireland for ever. |