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النشر الإلكتروني

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin ;

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh’d, when, at twilight repairing,

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on 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.

Oh, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,

The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine or danger,

A home and a country remain not for me! Ah! never again, in the green sunny bowers 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.

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O 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 that can meet me no more ; And thou, cruel Fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me, or live to deplore. Where now is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?

And where is my bosom-friend,-dearer than all ? Ah, my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw; Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean, And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavourneen! sweet Erin go bragh!

Campbell.

THE NIGHTS,

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08, the summer night

Has a smile of light,
And she sits on a sapphire throne :

Whilst the sweet winds load her

With garlands of odour,
From the bud to the rose o'er-blown!

But the Autumn night

Has a piercing sight,
And a step both strong and free;

And a voice for wonder,

Like the wrath of the thunder,
When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter night

Is all cold and white,
And she singeth a song of pain ;

Till the wild bee hummeth,
And the warm spring cometh,
When she dies in a dream of rain !

Oh, the night brings sleep

To the greenwoods deep,
To the bird of the woods its nest;

To care, soft hours ;

To life, new powers ;
To the sick and the weary, rest!

Barry Cornwall.

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WHEN THE WIND BLOWS.
WHEN the wind blows in the sweet rose-tree,
And the cow lows on the fragrant lea,
And the stream flows all bright and free,
'Tis not for thee, 'tis not for me,

'Tis not for any one here, I trow.
The gentle wind bloweth,
The happy cow loweth,
The merry stream floweth,

For all below.
Oh! the Spring, the bountiful Spring,
She shineth and smileth on ev'ry thing.
Where come the sheep? To the rich man's moor.
Where cometh the sleep? To the bed that's poor.
Peasants must weep, and kings endure ;
That's a fate that none can cure,

Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow,
She brings the bright hours,
She weaves the sweet flowers,
She dresseth her bowers

For all below.
Oh! the Spring, the bountiful Spring,
She shineth and smileth on ev'ry thing.

Barry Cornwall.

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THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER:
ROVER, awake! the

grey

cock crow8;
Come, shake your coat, and go with me!
High in the east the green hill glows,

And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold ;

My faithful dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold

And hail the source of cheerful day

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Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill,

And darting down the valley flies, At every casement welcome still,

The golden summons of the skies. Go, fetch my staff, and o'er the dews

Let echo waft thy gladsome voice ; Shall we a cheerful note refuse,

When rising morn proclaims “rejoice”? Now then, we'll start; and thus I'll sing,

Our store, a trivial load to bear;
Yet, ere night comes, should hunger sting,

I'll not encroach on Rover's share.
The fresh breeze bears its sweets along;

The lark but chides us while we stay;
Soon shall the vale repeat my song,
Go, brush before, away, away!

Bloomfield.

WINTER SONG. WHEN once I leave the town behind, What rapture animates my mind ; Rejoic'd I hail heaven, earth and sea, So dear is this fair scene to me! Around I look with gladden'd eyes, Like some exulting bird that flies Forth from its narrow prison-door, And mounts and sings still more and more. And all around appears so fair, Though drest in winter's vesture bare The frozen lake, so hard and white ; The woods with twinkling diamonds bright. Among the branches to and fro, The little songsters come and go ; Rejoicing in the transient ray That streams upon the wither'd spray.

Here infant seeds prepare to shoot,
Peeping beneath their snowy suit;
Down to the vale the roebuck hies,
Where soft sweet moss attracts his eyes.
Whatever change thy features mould,
Nature, to me thou'rt never old !
Nature! so kind and true a mate,
And yet so awful and so great!

THE GOOD OLD PLOUGH.
Let them sing who may of the battle fray,

And the deeds that have long since past:
Let them chant in praise of the tar whose days

Are spent on the ocean vast.
I would

render to these all the worship you please, I would honour them even now; But I'd give far more from my heart's full store,

To the cause of the Good Old Plough. Let them laud the notes that in music float

Through the bright and glittering halls :
While the graceful twirl of the hair's bright curl

Round the shoulder of beauty falls.
But dearer to me is the song from the tree,

And the rich and blossoming bough;
O, these are the sweets which the rustic greets,

As he follows the Good Old Plough.
Full many there be, that daily we see,

With a selfish and hollow pride,
Who the ploughman's lot, in his humble cot,

With a scornful look deride :
But I'd rather take a hearty shake

From his hand, than to wealth I'd bow ;
For the honest clasp of his hand's rough grasp

Has stood by the Good Old Plough.
All honour be then to those gray old men,

When at last they are bow'd with toil ;
Their warfare then o'er, they battle no more,

For they've conquer'd the stubborn soil.

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