Ere many days I met a maid, That burned with such wild glow, Then felt my own heart's woe. I loved her, wooed her, won her heart; Which uttered what she ne'er would speak,- I asked what ailed her; then her eyes Then learned I that in the pure heart, There always is reserved a part, To feel some pang of woe. There is no heart without a throe, His last great debt is paid-Poor Tom's no more:— Last debt! Tom never paid a debt before! "AWAY WITH THE ASPECT OF SORROW." A SONG. Away with the aspect of sorrow, We are come to the desert's lone fountain, And the pleasures our warm hearts are feeling, Fill the cup! there is magic within it, And the clouds that our pathway are darkling, Like the dew, which the spring blossom blesses, Like the rapture of lover's caresses, Are these hallowed moments of ours: While the bowl lends our bosoms its light? CHRISTOPHER. THE HARP OF INNISFAIL. BY D. S. L. A volume of poems, under the above title, has just appeared. The author is already known to our readers by several very delightful pieces with which he has honored our pages. The Harp of Innisfail is the first production that has brought D. S. L. before the bar of criticism; and we have no doubt of his receiving a very creditable verdict from the judges of that court. The Harp of Innisfail consists of the Legend of the Lakes, the Geraldine, and minor poems. The first occupies more than half the volume, and is divided into five parts-the Legend; the Stag Hunt; the Banquet; the Abbey; and the Battle. It is chiefly intended as an illustration of the beautiful scenery of the lakes of Killarney, which it describes in the most fascinating language, The second poem, the Geraldine, is perhaps the most finished of the whole it is founded on the following incident: "The complaints of the Butlers induced Henry to call the deputy to London, and to confine him to the Tower. At his departure the reins of government dropped into the hands of his son, the lord Thomas, a young man in his 21st year, generous, violent, and brave. His credulity was deceived by a false report that his father had been beheaded and his resentment urged him to the fatal resolution of bidding defiance to his sovereign. At the head of one hundred and forty followers he presented himself before the council: resigned the sword of state, the emblem of his authority; and, in a loud tone, declared war against Henry the Eighth, king of England. Cramer, Archbishop of Armagh, catching him by the hand, most earnestly besought him not to plunge himself and his family into irremediable ruin; but the voice of the prelate was drowned in the strains of an Irish minstrel, who, in his native tongue, called on the hero to revenge the blood of his father; and the precipitate youth, unfurling the standard of rebellion, commenced his career with laying waste the rich district of Fingal. A gleam of success cast a temporary lustre on his arms; and his revenge was gratified with the punishment of the supposed accuser of his father, Allen, Archbishop of Dublin, who was surprised and put to death by the Geraldines." Our limits will not permit us to extract from the foregoing; but the following, from the minor pieces, cannot but be read with interest, and must impress the reader with the most favorable opinion of the high poetical merits of the volume. I STOOD BY THE GRAVE. I stood by the grave, and the dark night came On a form more brief and pale than they : The ivy shook, as the wild bat fled lady moon." On its path of night, o'er the voiceless dead; I stood by the grave were my fathers lay. I stood by the grave, 'mid the wailing moans, I stood by the grave, and I wished that the breeze I stood by the grave, and my young heart felt I stood by the grave, and I turned away Oh! there are many, and fond and gay, Thoughtless as ought of their thoughtless scene: I deemed that my manhood one violet path Ere the blossom had dropped from the withered tree; I stood by the grave-a single hour- A chaplet fresh should weave for me; And my nuptial feast the worms should share ; AN EVENING DREAM. 'Twas one of those evenings, when poets will feel "Twas one of those evenings, all splendor and peace, And I stood on thy shore, Innisfallen, sweet isle! Other light than the light from thy old Abbey pile, And that moment, entranced in thy glories, I sighed And it seemed as if echo, exulting, replied That her own mountain spirit should bear that wish forth. |