We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing

Thy strains have made dearer still!

Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
Its flashes of vivid light:

We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet's brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,

In thy strains is dearer still!

A WISH.

OH! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o'erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun's yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset 'mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out

From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,

While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful night

shade!

4*

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

OH let it be where the waters are meeting,

In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright! Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,

May throw the last glance of his vanishing light, Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow,

Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell; Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow, And the burthen it sings to me, nought but "farewell!"

Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,

The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade; Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,

May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.

Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green

willow

Hang the harp that has cheer'd the lone minstrel

so well,

That the soft breath of heaven, as it sighs o'er my pillow,

From its strings, now forsaken, may sound one farewell.

ΤΟ

WHEN we first met, dark wintry skies were gloom

ing,

And the wild winds sang requiem to the year; But thou, in all thy beauty's pride wert blooming, And my young heart knew hope without a fear.

When we last parted, summer suns were smiling, And the bright earth her flowery vesture wore, But thou hadst lost the power of beguiling,

For my wrecked, wearied heart, could hope no

more.

ON A FORGET-ME-NOT,

Brought from Switzerland.

FLOWER of the mountain! by the wanderer's hand Robbed of thy beauty's short-lived sunny day; Didst thou but blow to gem the stranger's way, And bloom, to wither in the stranger's land! Hueless and scentless as thou art,

How much that stirs the memory,

How much, much more, that thrills the heart,
Thou faded thing, yet lives in thee!

Where is thy beauty? in the grassy blade,

There lives more fragrance, and more freshness

now;

Yet oh! not all the flowers that bloom and fade,
Are half so dear to memory's eye as thou.
The dew that on the mountain lies,

The breeze that o'er the mountain sighs,
Thy parent stem will nurse and nourish;
But thou-not e'en those sunny eyes
As bright, as blue, as thine own skies,

Thou faded thing! can make thee flourish.