English

SONG

When evening shades are falling
O'er Ocean's sunny sleep,
To pilgrims' hearts recalling
Their home beyond the deep;
When rest o'er all descending
The shores with gladness smile,
And lutes their echoes blending
Are heard from isle to isle,
Then, Mary, Star of the Sea,
We pray, we pray, to thee!

The noon-day tempest over,
Now Ocean toils no more,

Scarce had they closed this martial lay
When, flinging their light spears away,
The combatants, in broken ranks,
All breathless from the war-field fly;
And down upon the velvet banks
And flowery slopes exhausted lie,
Like rosy huntresses of Thrace,
Resting at sunset from the chase.

" Fond girls! " an aged Zean said —
One who himself had fought and bled,
And now with feelings half delight,
Half sadness, watched their mimic fight —

How changingly for ever veers
The heart of youth 'twixt smiles and tears!
Even as in April the light vane
Now points to sunshine, now to rain.
Instant this lively lay dispelled
The shadow from each blooming brow,
And Dancing, joyous Dancing, held
Full empire o'er each fancy now.
But say — what shall the measure be?
" Shall we the old Romaika tread, "
(Some eager asked) " as anciently
" 'T was by the maids of Delos led,

A silence followed this sweet air,
As each in tender musing stood,
Thinking, with lips that moved in prayer,
Of Sappho and that fearful flood:
While some who ne'er till now had known
How much their hearts resembled hers,
Felt as they made her griefs their own,
That they too were Love's worshippers.
At length a murmur, all but mute,
So faint it was, came from the lute
Of a young melancholy maid,

FIRST EVENING

" The sky is bright — the breeze is fair,
" And the mainsail flowing, full and free —
" Our farewell word is woman's prayer,
" And the hope before us — Liberty!
" Farewell, farewell.
" To Greece we give our shining blades,
" And our hearts to you. young Zean Maids!

" The moon is in the heavens above,

LETTER XI.

FROM PATRICK MAGAN, ESQ., TO THE REV. RICHARD — .

Dear D ICK — just arrived at my own humble gite ,
I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete,
Just arrived, per express, of our late noble feat.

[ Extract from the " County Gazette. " ]

This place is getting gay and full again.
Last week was married, " in the Lord, "
The Reverend Mortimer O'Mulligan,
Preacher, in Irish , of the Word,

FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO HIS WIFE JUDY .

A S it was but last week that I sint you a letther,
You 'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about;
And, throth, it 's a letther myself would like betther,
Could I manage to lave the contints of it out;
For sure, if it makes even me onaisy,
Who takes things quiet, 't will dhrive you crazy.

Oh! Judy, that riverind Murthagh, bad scran to him!
That e'er I should come to 've been sarvant-man to him,

FROM BOB FUDGE, ESQ., TO THE REV.
MORTIMER O'MULLIGAN.

I MUCH regret, dear Reverend Sir,
I could not come to * * * to meet you;
But this curst gout won't let me stir —
Even now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis,
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities —
But gout won't leave one even these .

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.

FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN,
MISS KITTY — — .

IRREGULAR ODE.

Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!

Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,

FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE, TO MRS. ELIZABETH
— —

How I grieve you 're not with us! — pray, come, if you can,
Ere we 're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory; —
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded) —
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down in brogue so deliciously oddly!