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النشر الإلكتروني

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young, thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.

38. GLENARA. - Thomas Campbell.

O! HEARD you yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly, with weeping and wail?
"T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence, they looked to the ground.

In silence they passed over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:
"Now here let us place the gray-stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed.

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no body was seen: Then a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn'T was the youth that had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamed of my lady, I dreamed of her grief,
I dreamed that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On the rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found:
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne:
Now joy to the House of fair Ellen of Lorn!

39. THE O’KAVANAGH. -J. A. Shea.

THE Saxons had met, and the banquet was spread,
And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led;

And the banners that hung round the festal that night
Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight.

In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn,
When earth to new beauty and vigor is born;
They shrank from his glance like the waves from the
For nature's nobility sat on his brow.

Attended alone by his vassal and bard, -
No trumpet to herald, no clansmen to guard,
He came not attended by steed or by steel:
No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel.

In

eye, and on lip, his high confidence smiled, So proud, yet so knightly so gallant, yet mild;

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He moved like a god through the light of that hall,
And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all.

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"Come pledge us, lord chieftain! come pledge us!" they cried: Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied;

And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh bore,-
"The friendships to come, not the feuds that are o'er!"

But, minstrel, why cometh a change o'er thy theme?
Why sing of red battle-what dream dost thou dream?
Ha! "Treason!"'s the cry, and "Revenge!" is the call,
As the swords of the Saxons surrounded the hall!

A kingdom for Angelo's mind, to portray
Green Erin's undaunted avenger that day;
The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting eye,
Like some comet commissioned with wrath from the sky.

Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his red way,
Through lances, and sabres, and hostile array;
And, mounting his charger, he left them to tell
The tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell.

--

And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance,
With a shout from each heart, and a soul in each lance:
He rushed, like a storm, o'er the night-covered heath,
And swept through their ranks like the angel of death.

Then hurrah! for thy glory, young chieftain, hurrah!
O! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-day,
Again would our "sunburst" expand in the gale
And Freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail!

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WHEN Music, Heavenly maid, was young,
While yet in early Greece she
sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the Muse's painting,
By turns, they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined:
Till once, 't is said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each - for Madness ruled the hour
Would prove his own expressive power.
First, Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
Even at the sound himself had made.

Next, Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings owned his secret stings:

In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.

With woful measures, wan Despair

Low sullen sounds!-his grief beguiled; A solemn, strange, and mingled air;

'T was sad, by fits, - by starts, 't was wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She called on Echo still through all her song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.

And longer had she

sung

Revenge impatient rose.

but, with a frown,

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;
And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat.
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien;

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught 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,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole :
Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay-
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, O! how altered was its sprightly 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,

The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,

Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,

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 Tempé's vale, her native maids,
Amid the festal sounding shades,
To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

41. THE GREEK AND TURKMAN. — Rev. George Croly.

Description of a night attack, by Constantine Palæologus, on a detached camp of Mohammed II., during the siege of Constantinople.

THE Turkman lay beside the river;

The wind played loose through bow and quiver;

The charger on the bank fed free,

The shield hung glittering from the tree,

The trumpet, shawn, and atabal,

Lay screened from dew by cloak and pall,
For long and weary was the way

The hordes had marched that burning day.

Above them, on the sky of June,
Broad as a buckler glowed the moon,
Flooding with glory vale and hill.
In silver sprang the mountain rill;
The weeping shrub in silver bent;
A pile of silver stood the tent;
All soundless, sweet tranquillity;
All beauty,

hill, brook, tent, and tree.

There came a sound

't was like the gush When night-winds shake the rose's bush! There came a sound—'t was like the tread

Of wolves along the valley's bed!

There came a sound-'t was like the flow

Of rivers swoln with melting snow!

There came a sound-'t was like the roar
Of Ocean on its winter shore!

"DEATH TO THE TURK!" up rose the yell-
On rolled the charge-a thunder peal!

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