But that a spirit o'er me stood,

And fir'd me with the wrathful mood;
And frenzy to my heart was giv❜n,

To speak the malison of heav'n.

"They would have cross'd themselves all mute,
They would have pray'd to burst the spell;
But at the stamping of my foot
Each hand down pow'rless fell,
And go to Athunree!* I cried,
High lift the banner of your pride!
But know that where its sheet unrolls
The weight of blood is on your souls!
Go where the havoc of your kerne
Shall float as high as mountain fern!
Men shall no more your mansion know!!
The nettles on your hearth shall grow!
Dead as the green oblivious flood,

That mantles by your walls, shall be
The glory of O'Connor's blood!

Away! away to Athunree!

Where downward when the sun shall fall

The raven's wing shall be your pall;

And not a vással shall unlace

The vizor from your dying face!

"A bolt that overhung our dome
Suspended till my curse was giv'n,
Soon as it pass'd these lips of foam
Peal'd in the blood-red heav'n.

* The battle fought in 1314, which decided the fate of Ireland.

Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw ;
But now, behold! like cataracts,
Come down the hills in view
O'Connor's plumed partizans,
Thrice ten Innisfallian clans
Were marching to their doom:
A sudden storm their plumage toss'd,
A flash of lightning o'er them cross'd,
And all again was gloom;

But once again in heav'n the bands
Of thunder spirits clapt their hands.

"Stranger! I fled the home of grief,
At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall;
I found the helmet of my chief,
His bow still hanging on our wall;
And took it down, and vow'd to rove
This desert placé a huntress bold;
Nor would I change my buried love
For any heart of living mould.
No! for I am a hero's child,

I'll hunt my quarry in the wild;
And still my home this mansion make,
Of all unheeded and unheeding,
And cherish, for my warrior's sake,
The flower of love lies bleeding."

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night cloud had low'r'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpow'r'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dream't it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
'Twas autumn-and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields travers'd so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers

sung.

Then pledg'd we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little one's kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn :-
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

The Dying Negro.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following Poem was occasioned by a fact which had recently happened at the time of its first publication, in 1773. A Negro, belonging to the Captain of a West-India-man, having agreed to marry a white woman, his fellow-servant, in order to effect his purpose, left his master's house, and procured himself to be baptized; but being detected and taken, he was sent on board the Captain's vessel then lying in the river : where, finding no chance of escaping, and preferring death to another voyage to America' he took an opportunity of stabbing himself. As soon as his deter. mination is fixed, he is supposed to write this Epistle to his intended wife.

ARM'D with thy sad last gift-the pow'r to die!
Thy shafts, stern Fortune, now I can defy;
Thy dreadful mercy points at length the shore,
Where all is peace, and men are slaves no more;
This weapon, ev'n in chains, the brave can wield,
And vanquish'd quit triumphantly the field:
Beneath such wrongs let pallid Christians live,
Such they can perpetrate, and may forgive.
Yet while I tread that gulf's tremendous brink,
Where nature shudders, and where beings sink,