I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE.

I ARISE from dreams of thee,
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright;
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me-who knows how?

To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail,

Like sweet thoughts in a dream.

The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail.

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heart beats loud and fast.

Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

IN a valley far away,

With my Maire bhan Astor,
Short would be the summer day,

Ever loving more and more.

Winter days would all grow long,

With the light her heart would pour,

With her kisses and her song

And her loving mait go leor.

MAIRE BHAN ASTÒR.

Fond is Maire bhan Astòr,
Fair is Maire bhan Astor,
Sweet as ripple on the shore
Sings my Maire bhan Astòr.

Oh! her sire is very proud,

And her mother cold as stone; But her brother bravely vowed,

She should be my bride alone; For he knew I loved her well,

And he knew she loved me too,
So he sought their pride to quell,
But 't was all in vain to sue.

True is Maire bhan Astòr,
Tried is Maire bhan Astòr ;
Had I wings, I'd never soar
From my Maire bhan Astor.

There are lands where manly toil
Surely reaps the crop it sows ;
Glorious wood and teeming soil,

Where the broad Missouri flows;
Through the trees the smoke shall rise,

From our hearth with mait go leòr, There shall shine the happy eyes

Of my Maire bhan Astor.

Mild is Maire bhan Astòr,

Mine is Maire bhan Astòr,

Saints will watch about the door

Of my Maire bhan Astor.

Thomas Davis.

"TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE.

'Tis said, that some have died for love, And here and there a churchyard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground,

Because the wretched man himself had slain,

His love was such a grievous pain.

And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone

Upon Helvellyn's side.

He loved ;-the pretty Barbara died;

And thus he makes his moan.

Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid

When thus his moan he made.

"Oh move, thou cottage, behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,

That in some other way yon smoke

May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on, they from the heavens depart,

I look,—the sky is empty space;

I know not what I trace,

But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart.

"Oh, what a weight is in these shades! ye leaves That murmur, once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,

It robs my heart of peace.

Thou thrush, that singest loud, and long, and free, Into yon row of willows flit,

Upon that alder sit,

Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

'TIS SAID, THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE.

"Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain-bounds,
And there for ever be thy waters chained!
For thou dost haunt the air with sounds

That cannot be sustained;

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough,
Headlong yon waterfall must come,

Oh let it then be dumb!

Be anything, sweet rill, but that which thou art now.

"Thou eglantine, so bright with sunny showers,

Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,
Thou one fair shrub, oh! shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale.

For thus to see thee nodding in the air;

To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,

Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

The man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance;
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Oh, gentle Love! if ever thought was thine,
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.

William Wordsworth.