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O I am leal to high Heaven,
Where soon I hope to be,
An' there I'll meet ye a' soon

Frae my ain countree !

A. Cunningham.

CXLVIII.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

HERE 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 reTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. [pairing But the daystar 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 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

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

Or strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh.

'Erin, my country; though 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 troubles can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore.

* Erin go bragh, Ireland for ever.

'Where is my cabin-door, fast to the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend dearer than all?
Oh my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure ;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

'Yet, all its sad recollections 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 !'

T. Campbell.

CXLIX.

THE PASSIONS.

(AN ODE FOR MUSIC.)

HEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,

Thronged around her magic cell,
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting:
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined,—
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,

From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;

* Erin mavournin! Ireland my darling.

And, as they oft had heard, apart,
Sweet lessons of her forceful heart,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid,
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rushed: his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures, wan Despair-
Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled :
A solemn, strange, and mingled air,
’Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,

And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail :
Still would her touch the scene prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song ;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,
A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted smiled, and waved her golden
hair ;-

And longer had she sung :—but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose :

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

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And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe!
And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat :

And though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien,

[his head.

While each strained ball of sight seemed brusting from

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state!

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed;

And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate.

With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And from her wild sequestered seat,

In notes by distance made more sweet,

Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;

And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound:

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole,
Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay,

Round a holy calm diffusing,

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Love of peace and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!
The oak-crowned Sisters and their chaste-eyed Queen,
Satyrs and Sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green.

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial;

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol

Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best : They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O Music! sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid!
Why, goddess, why, to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside?
As in that loved Athenian bower
You learned an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared!
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page ;-
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,

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