Few, few, shall part when many meet! THE 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 repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, 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? 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 motion, Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!* LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. Ireland my darling,-Ireland for ever. Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years What though beneath thee man put forth For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Go-let oblivion's curtain fall Its piteous pageants bring not back, Of pain anew to writhe; Ev'n I am weary in yon skies My lips that speak thy dirge of death- To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,- This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine; By him recall'd to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robb'd the grave of Victory,And took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall tasteGo, tell the Night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On Earth's sepulchral clod, The dark'ning universe defy To quench his Immortality, Or shake his trust in God! ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled Sun The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy Summer next advancing, Rush'd into her sire's embrace: On India's citron-cover'd isles: The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne; A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, But howling Winter fled afar, Howls his war-song to the gale; The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal-cover'd shield. O sire of storms! whose savage ear Fast descending as thou art, Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, And gently rule the ruin'd year; Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tearTo shuddering want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And gently on the orphan head Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, Pour on yonder tented shores, Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes To many a deep and dying groan; At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath May spare the victim fallen low; But man will ask no truce to death,No bounds to human woe.* REULLURA.† STAR of the morn and eve, Reullura shone like thee, And well for her might Aodh grieve, Peace to their shades! the pure Culdees By foot of Saxon monk was trode, Long ere her churchmen by bigotry Were barr'd from holy wedlock's tie, 'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar, In Iona preach'd the word with power, And Reullura, beauty's star, Was the partner of his bower. But, Aodh, the roof lies low, And the thistle-down waves bleaching, And the bat flits to and fro Where the Gael once heard thy preaching; And fallen is each column'd aisle Where the chiefs and the people knelt. Her soul in that hour was gifted When pale in the temple and faint, It bore a crucifix; Fame said it once had graced The Pictish men, by St. Columb taught, And cried, "It is he shall come This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. + Reullura, in Gaelic, signifies "beautiful star." The Culdees were the primitive clergy of Scotland, and apparently her only clergy from the sixth to the eleventh century. They were of Irish origin; and their monastery, on the island of Iona or Icolmkill, was the seminary of Christianity in North Britain. Presbyterian writers have wished to prove them to have been a sort of Presbyters, strangers to the Roman Church and Episcopacy. It seems to be established that they were not enemies to Episcopacy; but that they were not slavishly subjected to Rome, like the clergy of later periods, appears by their resisting the Papal ordinances respecting the celibacy of religious men, on which account they were ultimately displaced by the Scottish sovereigns to make way for more Popish canons. "Ah! knowest thou not, my bride," The holy Aodh said, "That the Saint whose form we stand beside Has for ages slept with the dead ?" "He liveth, he liveth," she said again, He sits by the graves of well-loved friends The sun, now about to set, Was burning o'er Tiriee, And no gathering cry rose yet O'er the isles of Albyn's sea. Whilst Reullura saw far rowers dip Their oars beneath the sun, And the phantom of many a Danish slup, Where ship there yet was none. And the shield of alarm was dumb, Nor did their warning till midnight come, When watch-fires burst from across From Rona and Uist and Skey, To tell that the ships of the Dane And the red-hair'd slayers were nigh. |