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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 ! Ah!-my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain drops, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall ! Yet, all its fond recollections suppressing

One dying wish my lone bosom shall 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!


Extract from Jorge Manrique's Poem, occasioned by the

Death of his Father, translated from the Spanish.

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O LET the soul its slumbers break,
Arouse its senses and awake,

To see how soon
Life, with its glories, glides away,
And the stern footstep of decay

Comes stealing on.
How pleasure, like the passing wind,
Blows by, and leaves us nought behind

But grief at last;
How still our present happiness
Seems, to the wayward fancy, less

Than what is past.
And while we eye the rolling tide,
Down which our flying minutes glide

Away so fast;
Let us the present hour employ,
And deem each future dream of joy

Already past.

Let no vain hope deceive the mind-
No happier let us hope to find

To-morrow than to-day,
Our golden dreams of yore were bright;
Like them the present shall delight-

Like them decay.
Our lives like hasting streams must be,
That into one engulphing sea

Are doom'd to fall :
The Sea of Death, whose waves roll on,
O'er King and kingdom, crown and throne,

And swallow all.

Alike the river's lordly tide,
Alike the humble riv'lets glide

To that sad wave ;
Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side

Within the grave.


To a Coquette.

I do confess thou'rt young and fair,

And I might have been brought to love thee, Had I not found the slightest prayer

That breath could move, had power to move thee ; But I can let thee now alone, As worthy to be loved by none. I do confess thou’rt sweet, but find

Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets ;
Thy favours are but like the wind,

That kisseth every thing it meets.
And since thou can'st with more than one,
Thou'rt worthy to be lov'd by none.
The morning rose that untouch'd stands,

Arm'd with its briers, how sweet its smiles !
But pluck'd and strain'd by ruder hands, and

Its sweet no longer with it dwells;


But scent and beauty both are gone, i.
And leaves fall from it, one by one.
Such fate ere long will thee betide,

When thou hast handled been a-while,
Like faded flowers—be thrown aside,

And I shall sigh, when some will smile,
To see thy love for every one
Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none.

The morning rose is certainly an excellent comparison.

On True Dignity.

Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose !
Can passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes?
Here Innocence may wander safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph wings.
O Solitude, ihe man who thee foregoes,

When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur

springs. Vain man, is grandeur given to gay attire? Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid :To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire ? It is thy weakness that requires their aid :To palaces, with gold and gems inlaid ? They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm.;To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade?

Behold the vietor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of woe the locust can perform.

True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has rais'd above the things below;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign’d,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest


This strain from 'midst the rocks was heard to flow In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star ; And from embattled clouds emerging slow

Cynthia came riding on her silver car; And hoary mountain-cliffs shone faintly from afar.


Extract from Verses by Lord Byron, addressed to a

Youthful Friend.

As rolls the ocean's changing tide,

So human feelings ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide

Where stormy passions ever glow?
It boots not that, together bred,

Our childish days were days of joy ;
My spring of life has quickly fled;

Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy.
And when we bid adieu to youth,

Slaves to the specious world's control,
We sigh a long farewell to truth;

That world corrupts the noblest soul.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind

Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When thought ere spoke is unconfined,

And sparkles in the placid eye.
Not so in Man's maturer years,

When Man himself is but a tool ;
When interest sways our hopes and fears,

And all must love and hate by rule.
With fools in kindred vice the same,

We learn at length our faults to blend,
And those, and those alone may claim

The prostituted name of friend.
Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then 'scape from folly free?

Can we reverse the general plan, :

Nor be what all in turn must be?
But thou, with spirit frail and light,

Will shine a-while and pass away ;
As glow-worms sparkle through the night,

But dare not stand the test of day.
Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet,
(For, cherish'd first in royal halls,

The welcome vices kindly greet.)
Ev'n now thou’rt nightly seen to add

One insect to the fluttering crowd ;
And still thy trilling heart is glad,

To join the vain, and court the proud.
There dost thou glide from fair to fair,

Still simpering on with eager haste ;
As flies along the gay parterre,

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.
But say, what nymph will prize the flame

Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?
What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,

Will deign to own a kindred care ?
Who will debase his manly mind,

For friendship every fool may share?.
In time forbear; amidst the throng,

No more so base a thing be seen ieten
No more so idly pass along:

og! ĐT Be something, any thing, but, mean.

The Maid of the Inn.

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Who is she, the poor maniac ! whose wildly-fix'd eyes.

Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ?

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