INCE our Country, our God-Oh, my Sire! emand that thy Daughter expire;

ince thy triumph was bought by thy vowtrike the bosom that's bared for thee now!

nd the voice of my mourning is o'er,
nd the mountains behold me no more:
the hand that I love lay me low,
here cannot be pain in the blow!

nd of this, oh, my Father! be surehat the blood of thy child is as pure s the blessing I beg ere it flow,

nd the last thought that soothes me below.

5.

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!

snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear

"heir leaves, the earliest of the year;
the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

1 oft by yon blue gushing stream -hall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause and lightly tread;

Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

ay; we know that tears are vain,

hat death nor heeds nor hears distress:

1 this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less? thou-who tell'st me to forget,

- looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

MY SOUL IS DARK.

1.

My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear,

'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain:

2.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nurst,

And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst, And break at once-or yield to song.