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The next sun's ray

Soon melted away
Ev'ry trace on the path where the false Lord came;

But there's a light above,

Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleens fame.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

T. Campbell.

ALONE to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube,

Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
Oh whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my love?

Or here dost thou welter, and bleed on the shore?
What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh’d!

All mournful she hasten’d, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar! From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar; And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,

To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar? Thou shalt live, she replied, Heaven's mercy relieving

Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn! Ah, no! the last pang in my bosom is heaving!

No light of the morn shall to Henry return!

Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!

Ye babes of my love that await me afar!-
His faultering tongue scarce could murmur adieu,

When he sunk in her arms--the poor wounded Hussar!

THE LEGACY.

T. Moore.

WHEN in death I shall calm recline,

O bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it liv'd upon smiles, and wine

Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here:
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant aud light;
But balmy drops from the red grape borrow,

To bathe the relic from morn to night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hang it up at that friendly door

Were weary travellers love to call:
Then if some Bard, who roams forsaken,

Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken

Your warmest smile for the child of Song.

Keep this cup, which is now o’erflowing,

To grace your revel when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never, its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest!
But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim,

2

Oh! then my spirit around shall hover,

And hallow each drop that foams for him.

EXILE OF ERIN.

T. Campbell

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh’d, when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's 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 pot to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefather's liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And 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 perils can chase me?
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

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?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandon’d by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection 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!*

* Ireland my darling-Ireland for ever.

FARE THEE WELL!

Lord Byron.

FARE thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee

Were thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again:

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee.-

Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe

Though my many faults defaced me;

Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound?

Yet oh yet, thyself deceive not;

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow Wilt thou teach her to say.“ Father!"

Tho' his care she must forego?

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