Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be :
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat ;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts !
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave !
Soon the saint (yet ah ! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, 'Heav'n rest her soul!'
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.

Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises !

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,

Beauty lies

In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where nature placed it.
Oh! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,

Nature's dress

Is loveliness-
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,

But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they ’re design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? Pillowed on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes-
Bed of peace ! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.

Oh! my Nora Creina dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina !

Wit, tho' bright,

Hath no such light,
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov’d, when life shone warm in thine eye ;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear! When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear ;

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh my love ! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls, Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake !—the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake !-till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing

The light, that lies

In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorn'd the lore she brought me,

My only books

Were woman's looks,
And folly 's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him the Sprite,

Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,

If once their ray

Was turned away
O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going ?
And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing ?
No, vain, alas ! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever ;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,

The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light, treedom, and song ! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness

Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,

*This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,

Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine ; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb’d at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,

And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,
Than e’er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,

And only then,-
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again!