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POETRY

THE ISLE OF GREEN.

A SONG,
Tune, Gramachree.

Why does angry time remind us,
Of the many hours mispent ?
'Tis because they leave behind us,
But the stings of discontent.

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FOR THE AMERICAN YOXTILY MAGAZINE

WAEN o'er the ocean's stormy scene, Youth, the season for enjoyment,
Hard fortune bade me rove,

Basking e'er in pleasure's stream,
With tears I left the ISLE OF GREEN, Without study or employment,
And all I e'er can love ;

Finds his happiness a dream.
For scenes of joy I'll never find,
Like Erin's fields again ;

Fondly grasping, and pursuing
Nor meet with hearts so true and kind, Pleasure, tliat eludes the eye,
As Irish breasts contain.

Still possessing, still renewing,

What is fancy but a sigh?
When on the deck I took my stand,
To view with anxious eye,

Vainly solid comfort courts him,
The fading tints of that dear land To improve the present bour,
Where all my fathers lie,

Syren Fancy still transports him, I sigh'd to think of many a friend, 'Till she charms away her power. Tbere, long and dearly lov’d,

F. L. Whose pray’rs for me shall oft ascend,

When I am far remov'd.
0! ye of tender hearts declare,

If ye the pang e'er knew,
Which parting friends are doom'd to

To the Novice of the Convent i
bear,
How sad their last adieu !

of the Visitation.
If ye have felt your country sweet,
And must from her depart,

If e'er within thine holy cell,
Think ye with aught on earth to meet, Aught but devotion's thoughts may

dwell, Escept a--broken heart !

And if thine ear may listen more When Erin's son's are forc'd to stray, !o the kind voice it knew before, Far from their native shore,

Sweet sister! o'er Love's broken urn, In hours of grief, ah! well may they,

Let memory's vestal taper burn ; Their cruel fate deplore !

Though hope has turn’d with weary Well may they too, in hours of pride.

wing Boast that their birth was there,

To Heav'n its holier wandering! For ocean rolls his ample tide,

Love has but fix'd on Heaven thine Around no land so fair!

eyes,
A broken-heart the sacrifice !
Time's ruthles hand has but effac'd
In thee the lines that beauty trac'd ;
For me it strikes the chord of death!

Whilst Heav'n recalls the wasting
ILLUSIONS OF FANCY.

breath! Why does hope so often languish, Hark !-sounds to prayer the vesper Pleasure satiate, and destroy?

bell ; 'Tis because a fancied anguis

Sister! 'tis my last farewell! Takes the place of real joy.

H. W. L.

M'ERIN.

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTALY MAGAZINE,

Reply to Burns's

LASSIE WI' TH' LIST-WHITE LOCKS.

Chorus. Laddie wi' th' auburn hair, Manly laddie, faithfu' laddie, Wi thee I'll share the shepherd's care, And I will be thy dearie O.

When Spring unfaulds herkirtle green,
And in ilk plant an emblein's seen,
O' frolic youth, wi' thee the scene,
I'll share, and be thy dearie 0.

J,addie wi' &c.

When Simmer comes and Phæbus gay In burnish'd dress adorns the day, Love's torch shall borrow frae his ray New sheen to sparkle blithly 0.

Laddie wi' &c.

When Ceres too the sickle wields,
To crown her born wi' Autumn's yields,
The mirthfu' goddess o' the fields
We'll court at dusky even 0.

Laddie wi' &c,

And should cauld Winter grimly start Frae blighting bowers to chill the heart, Thy kind embrace shall foil his art And yield me sweet protection 0.

Laddie wi' &c. CLIO.

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTOLY MAGAZIXE.

THE PERSIAN EXILE'S LAMENT.

« The Persians in their creed have a pleasant imagination concerning the death of men. They say, that every one must come and die in the place where the Angel took the earth of which he had been made.” Thevenot

O! for Persia's land of Aowers,

Fragrant as the breath of morn, That I might among its bowers,

See the spot where I was born; And beneath its sailiant skv, Lay me down in peace and die.

Here beneath this rugged clime,

Never can my spirit rest, Hasten on thy way, O time!

Bring the hour that makes me blest When my feet again shall roam Thro' my dear-my native home.

Am I destined here to die?

Shall I never hence return? Must my ashes tearless lie

Distant from my father's urn, In this harsh and desert wild? Holy Alla! spare thy child!

In this dark and lonesome glen,

Low I bend the votive knee.
Far from Angels and from men,

Still I humbly call on thee ;-
Still adoring at the shrine
Of my father's God and mine.

Oh! accept my ardent strain,

In this dreary hour of need, And my spirit yet maintain,

Steadfast to my father's creed; That I may, thro' good and ill, Worship only Alla still,

Yes! I feel my faith increase,

While to thee I trembling kneel,
And a balmy flood of peace,

Thro' my bosom softly steal;-
Holy Alla! to thy throne,
Thou at last will bring thy own.

And that consecrated spot,

Where the angel smiled on me, When to being I was brought,

Yet once more these eyes shall see; And take, beneath its cloudless sky, One draught of bliss before I die.

Oh! for my dear-my natal clime,
My own sweet river's gentle hum-
Haste on thy pinion, lagging time!

And let the hour of rapture comes When I shall watch the light of morn Gleam o'er the hills that saw me born.

Then may I yield my spirit up
To him who rules the earth and

skies-
And dip with joy, my golden cup

Into the lake of Paradise ;
And that immortal pleasure own,
Which emanates from Alla's throne.

0

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE

THE SPIRIT OF THE FIRE,

I am the subtle spirit of the fire

In earth's untrodden caves and mines I sleep;
Forth from its deep recesses I aspire,

Or there in darkness, secret vigils keep.
I travel on the sulphurous lightning's wing,

When storms and tempests hurtle through the sky; In azure robes I guard the burning spring,

And bow before the breeze that passes by. I dwell within the bosom of the sun,

The starry legions own my mystic sway, Along the comet's radiant path I run,

And in its gorgeous train delighted play. Oft in the dead of night I lift my head

And when you mark the clouds with ruddy glare; Far thro' the Heavens a gloomy lustre shed,

Be sure, with subtle mischief, I am there. 'Tis at the midnight hour, I love to wake,

Warring with winds, my wild and wrathful yell; Beware, when I destruction's sceptre take,

'Twas I that laughed o'er Moscow when she fell! I sometimes place me in the ranks of war,

And stir my pinion when the cannons roar, Till, wearied with destruction, men abhor

The sight of ashes and of human gore. I wave my wing on the volcano's height,

And from its crater clouds of smoke arise, On these I sail along the startled night,

And wake the dreaming sleeper with my cries. I bear my meteor lamp across the moor,

To lead the wandring traveller from his way, To unfreyjuented bogs his steps I lure,

And smile to see him foul deception's prey. When winter rages round with frost and snow,

I brighten in the light that cheers your dome, 'Tis mine to bid the dusky embers glow

With beams of comfort on your evening home, And when amid the falling coals your eye

May castles, hills, and rocks, and fields behold, Know 'tis the Sylph of fire-yes, it is I

Who there these beauteous fantacies unfold. Gentle and wrathtul-pleasing and yet dread,

Where shall your busy search my likeness find? Thro' earth and air my wide dominions spread,

I am a spirit of fantastic kind,

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE MEMORY OF THE PAST.
There is a feeling which shall brightly glow,
Forever in a warm and noble heart,
Nor in the gloomy scenes of deepest wo,
Its soothing power will from the soul depart.
It is the mem'ry of the days we spent
In youthful happiness and childhood's joys.
When blooming fancy oft to pleasure lent,
A beauty, which the world too soon destroys.
It cheers the Exile in a foreign clime,
In hours of deepest sorrow and distress,
In all his woes he sighs “ there was a time
In which I too have tasted happiness."
And then he muses on bis early youth,
And seems to feel that happiness again,
The thought has power the darkest grief to soothe,
And bid his soul forget to think of pain.
And though with deeper wo his heart is fraught,
And heavier is his load of bursting care,
When vanishes the sweetly-pleasing thought,
And fades his visions into empty air.
He would not e'er that fancied bliss resign,
For all ambition's state and grandeur's show,
That mem'ry round his heart shall long entwine,
Increase his joys, yet heighten all his wo.-

ANNA.

FOR THE AMERICAN MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

A SONG.
Young Sally was the first and fairest

That Aush'd with love my youthful breast,
And when she vow'd she held me dearest,
I looked on life as more than blest.

Believing all of heart's delight,
That lover's dream, or poets write

Were centered in my Sally.
Love, yet unschool'd, my lays adorning,

In rainbow rhymes her beauties drew,
Her smiling eyes like : ay-day morning,
In tears like harebells hung with dew;

Ran Eden o'er on fancy's feet,
But ah! found nothing half so sweet,

Nor half so fair as Sally.
Though ev'ry flower assured me daily,

That what is fair, alas! is frail,
Each Muse, her year spent glad and gaily,
To trim for her my tender tale.

But ah! with all our courteous care
We lit on nothing half so fair-

Noe half so false as Sally.

F. L

RETROSPECT OF POLITICS.

The foreign intelligence of the last month has been more than usually varied and important. The policy of the British government has officially developed itself in the King's speech at the opening of Parliament; the views of Spain in respect to South America have become more explicit ; intelligence of a very satisfactory and cheering nature has been heard of the Greeks ; and information has been received of a powerful nation having once more lifted her arm against that execrable commonwealth of pirates that inhabit the coast of Barbary. Each of these

themes presents an extensive field for political speculation ; but : in our present number we have not space to dilate sufficiently on

each, to do it justice. Our remarks must, therefore, be confined to those topics which we consider the most important.

The tone of the King of England's speech is altogether pacifie; and his ablest and most influential minister has asserted in Parliament that, at no period had the country greater reason to calculate on a long continuance of peace. The British Ministers, it is true, scarcely conceal their chagrin at the vast accession of political power which has been acquired by their ancient enemy and national rival, in consequence of her recent successes in Spain. The close connexion now existing between the monarchs of the Bourbon family, cannot, indeed, be viewed by England with complaisance, as their united strength must ever be to her a source of danger. She is conscious that they never contemplate her prosperity with good will; and that when she is unfortunate they never fail to exult. Her religion and her political institutions, have long been the objects of their implacable hatred, while her power has excited their fears, and her wealth their envy. She has often humbled their ambition, and crippled their strength. She cannot, and does not, therefore, expect that they will ever cherish towards her, feelings of sincere friendship and good will ; and it would be only by an exertion of generosity, which no nation ever yet exhibited, that she could bring herself to experience a genuine desire for their aggrandizement.

VOL. I.-NO. IV. 47

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