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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.
O LET the soul its slumbers break,
To see how soon
Comes stealing on.
But grief at last;
Than what is past.
Away so fast;
Let no vain hope deceive the mind-
To-morrow than to-day,
Like them decay.
Are doom'd to fall :
And swallow all.
Alike the river's lordly tide,
To that sad wave ;
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 ;
That kisseth every thing it meets.
Arm'd with its briers, how sweet its smiles !
Its sweet no longer with it dwells;
But scent and beauty both are gone, i.
When thou hast handled been a-while,
And I shall sigh, when some will smile,
The morning rose is certainly an excellent comparison.
On True Dignity.
Hail, awful scenes, that calm the troubled breast,
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
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!
True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
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
As rolls the ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow;
Where stormy passions ever glow?
Our childish days were days of joy ;
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy.
Slaves to the specious world's control,
That world corrupts the noblest soul.
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
And sparkles in the placid eye.
When Man himself is but a tool ;
And all must love and hate by rule.
We learn at length our faults to blend,
The prostituted name of friend.
Can we then 'scape from folly free?
Can we reverse the general plan, :
Nor be what all in turn must be?
Will shine a-while and pass away ;
But dare not stand the test of day.
Where parasites and princes meet,
The welcome vices kindly greet.)
One insect to the fluttering crowd ;
To join the vain, and court the proud.
Still simpering on with eager haste ;
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?
Will deign to own a kindred care ?
For friendship every fool may share?.
No more so base a thing be seen ieten
og! ĐT Be something, any thing, but, mean.
The Maid of the Inn.
Who is she, the poor maniac ! whose wildly-fix'd eyes.
Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ?