Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, Thrice twenty summers I have seen Τ THE EXILE OF ERIN.* HERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robes was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, "Sad is my fate!" said the heart-broken stranger; 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 the 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 die to defend me, or live to deplore! *Anthony McCann, exiled for being implicated in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Campbell met him at Hamburg. + Ireland for ever. "Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? "Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 'Erin mavournin*-Erin go bragh!"" THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. UR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, * Ireland my darling. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, I flew to the pleasant fields traversed 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 pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart, Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn ; LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING A SCENE IN T the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, AT On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood.* All ruined and wild is their roofless abode, And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree: And travelled by few is the grass-covered road, Yet wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, From each wandering sunbeam, a lonely embrace, Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and bright, In the days of delusion by fancy combined Be hushed, my dark spirit! for wisdom condemns Be strong as the rock of the ocean that stems Through the perils of chance, and the scowl of disdain, |