O I am leal to high Heaven, Frae my ain countree ! A. Cunningham. CXLVIII. THE EXILE OF ERIN. HERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin : The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sighed, when at twilight reTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. [pairing But the daystar attracted his eyes' 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. Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or 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 troubles can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore. * Erin go bragh, Ireland for ever. 'Where is my cabin-door, fast to the wild wood? Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure ; 'Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, T. Campbell. CXLIX. THE PASSIONS. (AN ODE FOR MUSIC.) HEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, Thronged around her magic cell, From the supporting myrtles round * Erin mavournin! Ireland my darling. And, as they oft had heard, apart, First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Next Anger rushed: his eyes on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings; With woeful measures, wan Despair- But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail : And longer had she sung :—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose : He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe! The doubling drum with furious heat : And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, [his head. While each strained ball of sight seemed brusting from Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the veering song was mixed; And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And dashing soft from rocks around, Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But oh, how altered was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, Peeping from forth their alleys green. Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best : They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing; Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round; As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, |