ALAS, I CANNOT LOVE!

A BALLAD.

"Tis easy weeping with no cause for woe:

Across the plain the streams most smoothly flow."

Sweet lady, there was nought in me to win a heart like thine; No stamp of honored ancestry, that spoke a noble line;

Nor wealth, that could that want repay, had I to lure thine

eye,

When all but thee and thine still passed the boy-bard coldly

bye.

Can I forget the blushing hour, when by thee led to dance, Amid the proud, who on me lower'd with many a haughty glance?

A radiant smile there was to me- to them a lofty look, Which graced my very bashfulness, and gave their scorn re

buke!

Beside thee, in thy kinsman's hall, amid the banquet throng, For me was kept the place of pride-from me was sought the

song!

What had I done-what can I do-my title to approve?
Alas! this lay is all my thanks-my heart is dead to love!
It is not that that heart is cold-nor yet is vowed away;
But that, amid the spring of youth, it feels itself decay.
The withered bloom of early hopes, and darings hope above,
Encrust it now, and dim its shine :-alas, I cannot love!
They tell me that my broken lute once wrought on thee its
spell,

They whisper that my voice, now mute, in speech could please thee well;

Pale brow, blue eye, and Saxon locks, they say, thy heart could move,

More than red cheek or raven curls-yet ah! I cannot love!

It may be as I trust it is-that in my willing ear

They poured the dew of flattery, and that thou, lady, ne'er Had'st thoughts that friendship would not own, for souls like thine can prove

How much of kindred warmth may glow without a spark of Love!

One only passion now will cure this palsy of the heart: Ambition's spell, if aught, will lure; but whatsoe'er the

part,

In after life I do or dree-the praise shall all be thine, And all the fame I e'er may win be offered at thy shrine!

ILLUSTRATIONS TO MOORE'S IRISH MELODIES. BY THE LATE THOMAS STOTHARD, R.A.

No. IV.-RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But, oh! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems and snow-white wand.

Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold

As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm!
No son of Erin will offer me harm;

For though they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle;
And bless'd for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride!

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:-"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made upon the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."Warner's History of Ireland.

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY;

AN AMERICAN SKETCH.

BY JAMES HALL, AUTHOR OF "LEGENDS OF THE WEST.'

"

AFTER an absence of several years from my native city, I had lately the pleasure of paying it a visit; and, having spent a few days with my friends, was about to bid adieu, once more, to the goodly and quiet streets of Philadelphia. The day had not yet dawned, and I stood trembling at the door of the stage-office, muffled in a great coat, while the driver was securing my baggage. The streets were still and tenantless, and not a foot seemed to be travelling but my own. Every body slept, gentle and simple; for sleep is a gentle and simple thing. The watchmen slumbered; and the very lamps seemed to have caught the infectious drowsiness. I felt that I possessed at that moment a lordly pre-eminence among my fellow-citizens; for they were all torpid, as dead to consciousness as swallows in the winter, or mummies in a catacomb. I alone had sense, knowledge, power, energy, The rest were all perdu-shut up, like the imprisoned genii, who were Lottled away by Solomon, and cast into the sea. I could release them from durance in an instant; I could discharge either of them from imprisonment, or I could suffer the whole to remain spell-bound until the appointed time for their enlargement. Every thing slept; mayor, aldermen, and councils; the civil and the military; learning, and beauty, and eloquence; porters, dogs, and drays, steam engines and patent machines; even the elements reposed.

If it had not been so cold, I could have moralized upon the death-like torpor that reigned over the city. As it was, I could not help admiring that wonderful regulation of nature, which thus periodically suspends the vital powers of a whole people. There is nothing so cheering as the bustle of a crowd, nothing more awful than its repose. When we behold the first, when we notice the vast aggregate of human life so variously occupied, so widely diffused, so powerful, and so buoyant, a sensation is produced like that with which we gaze at the ocean when agitated by a storm; a sense of the utter inadequateness of human power to still such a mass