But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry !

Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

GLENARA.

O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?

'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They march'd all in silence,-they look'd on the ground.

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and

hoar:

"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn :

Why speak ye no word!"-said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd.

'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and

loud;

"And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;

When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in

scorn,

'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borneNow joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

EXILE OF ERIN.

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 re pairing

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 not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, 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 abandoned 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 recollections 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 mon, Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the oce ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud wit 1.2votion,

Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!"

• Ireland my darling,-Ireland for eve