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THE TURKISH LADY.

'Twas the hour when rites unholy

Called each Paynim voice to prayer, And the star that faded slowly

Left to dews the freshened air. Day her sultry fires bad wasted,

Calm and sweet the moonlight rose; Ev'n a captive's spirit tasted

Half oblivion of his woes.
Then 'twas from an Emir's palace

Came an eastern lady bright;
She, in spite of tyrants jealous,

Saw and loved an English knight. “Tell me, captive, why in anguish

Foes have dragged thee here to dwell, Where poor Christians as they languish

Hear no sound of sabbath bell?". “ 'Twas on Transylvania's Bannat

When the crescent shone afar, Like a pale disastrous planet

O’er the purple tide of war“In that day of desolation,

Lady, I was captive made; Bleeding for my Christian nation

By the walls of high Belgrade." “Captive! could the brightest jewel

From my turban set thee free?" “ Lady, no !—the gift were cruel,

Ransomed, yet if rest of thee.

"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

Clasped his blooming Eastern bride.

EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill :
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind beaten hill.
But the daystar 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, [hours, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet 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 seabeaten shore; But alas ! in a fair foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh cruel fate! will thou never replace ine In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chasc 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 tha' locked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned 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 devotion

Erin mavournin !- Erin go bragh!*

LINES, Written at the request of the Highland Society in Lon

don, when met to commemorate the 21st of March, the

day of victory in Egypt. Pledge to the much loved land that gave us birth Invincible romantic Scotia's shore !

* Ireland my darling-Ireland for ever.

Pledge to the memory of her parted worth!

And first amid the brave, remember Moore ! And be it deemed 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 be not as heroes wish to die?

Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal,

To us his bright career too short was giv'n; Yet in a mighty cause his phænix soul

Rose on the flames of victory to Heav'n!

How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain

One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!-how oft on fair Corunna's plain

Shall British exiles weep upon his urn !

Peace to the mighty dead !-our bosom thanks

In sprightlier strains they living may inspire ! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks,

Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire! Triumphant be the thistle still unfurled,

Dear symbol wild! on freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemmed the tyrants of the world,

And Roman eagles found unconquered foes. Joy to the band* this day on Egypt's coast

Whose valour tamed proud France's tricolor, And wrenched the banner from her bravest host,

Baptized Invincible in Austria's gore !
Joy for the day on red Vimeria's strand,

When bayonet to bayonet opposed
First of Britannia's hosts her Highland band

Gave but the death shot once, and foremost closed

* The 42d Regiment.

Is there a son of generous England here

Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join, Το pray

that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine ! Types of a race who shall the invader scorn,

As rocks resist the billows round their shore; Types of a race who shall to time unborn

Their country leave unconquered as of yore!

LINES,

WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN ARGYLESHIRE.

Ar the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowsul mood, On the wind shaken weeds that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruined and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree
And travelled by few is the grass covered road,
Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trode

To his hills that encircle the sea.
Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk,

By the dial stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been.
Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race,

All wild in the silence of Nature, it drew,
From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace;
For the night weed and thorn overshadowed the place,

Where the flower of my forefathers grew.

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