And the bird, whose song is free
And the many-whispering tree:
Oh! too deep a love, and vain,
They would win to earth again.

Spread them not before the eyes,
Closing fast on summer skies!
Woo thou not the spirit back,
From its lone and viewless track,
With the bright things which have birth
Wide o'er all the colour'd earth!

With the violet's breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily's pearl-cup shed,

Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth-of spring-time eves-
Music-beauty-all she leaves !

Hush! 'tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.

Yes! o'er fountain, vale, and grove,
Leaf and flower hath gush'd her love;
But that passion, deep and true,
Knows not of a last adieu.

Types of lovelier forms than these,
In their fragile mould she sees;
Shadows of yet richer things,
Born beside immortal springs,
Into fuller glory wrought,
Kindled by surpassing thought!

Therefore, in the lily's leaf,

She can read no word of grief;
O'er the woodbine she can dwell,
Murmuring not-Farewell! farewell!
And her dim, yet speaking eye,
Greets the violet solemnly.

Therefore once, and yet again,.
Strew them o'er her bed of pain;
From her chamber take the gloom
With a light and flush of bloom:

So should one depart, who

goes

Where no death can touch the rose!

THE IVY-SONG.*

OH! how could fancy crown with thee,
In ancient days, the God of Wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the Vine?

Ivy! thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more,

Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

* This song, as originally written, the reader will have met with in an earlier part of this publication. Being afterwards completely remodelled by Mrs Hemans, perhaps no apology is requisite for its re-insertion here.

The Roman, on his battle-plains,
Where kings before his eagles bent,
With thee, amidst exulting strains,
Shadow'd the victors tent:

Though shining there in deathless green,
Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave-

Urn and sculpture half divine
Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead,

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest treadIvy! they know thee well!

And far above the festal vine,

Thou wavest where once-proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, —The Rhine, still fresh and young!

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down-
Those eyries of a vanish'd race,
Where harp, and battle, and renown,
Have pass'd, and left no trace.
But thou art there!-serenely bright,

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!

Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.

'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread
O'er classic plains, through deserts free,
On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee.

And still let man his fabrics rear,
August in beauty, stern in power,
-Days pass-thou Ivy never sere,*
And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine-
Temple, pillar, shrine!

THE MUSIC OF ST PATRICK'S.

[The choral music of St Patrick's Cathedral, Dublin, is almost unrivalled in its combined powers of voice, organ, and scientific skill. The majestic harmony of effect thus produced, is not a little deepened by the character of the church itself; which though small, yet with its dark rich fretwork, knightly helmets and banners, and old monumental effigies, seems all filled and overshadowed by the spirit of chivalrous antiquity. The imagination never fails to recognise it as a fitting scene for high solemnities of old ;—a place to witness the solitary vigil of arms, or to resound with the fune ral march at the burial of some warlike king.]

"All the choir

Sang Hallelujah, as the sound of seas.'

MILTON.

AGAIN! oh, send that anthem peal again
Through the arch'd roof in triumph to the sky!
Bid the old tombs ring proudly to the strain,
The banners thrill as if with victory!

* "Ye myrtles brown, and ivy never sere."—Lycidas.

Such sounds the warrior awestruck might have heard, While arm'd for fields of chivalrous renown:

Such the high hearts of kings might well have stirr❜d, While throbbing still beneath the recent crown!

Those notes once more !-they bear my soul away,
They lend the wings of morning to its flight;
No earthly passion in th' exulting lay,
Whispers one tone to win me from that height.

All is of Heaven!-Yet wherefore to mine eye Gush the vain tears unbidden from their source? Even while the waves of that strong harmony Roll with my spirit on their sounding course!

Wherefore must rapture its full heart reveal
Thus by the burst of sorrow's token-shower?
-Oh! is it not, that humbly we may feel

Our nature's limit in its proudest hour?

KEENE, OR LAMENT OF AN IRISH MOTHER OVER HER SON.

[This lament is intended to imitate the peculiar style of the Irish Keenes, many of which are distinguished by a wild and deep pathos, and other characteristics analogous to those of the national music.]

DARKLY the cloud of night comes rolling on;
Darker is thy repose, my fair-hair'd son!

Silent and dark!