O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:
On a 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 reveal'd 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!

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 o'er 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.

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 and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.

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!

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 who can meet me no more!
Oh cruel fate? wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where 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 the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,-sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,--
Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh * !

* Ireland my darling, Ireland for ever.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."-

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"-

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady :

And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white,

I'll row you o'er the ferry."

-

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,.
But not an angry father."-

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.-

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing,

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover:

-

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-oh my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing :-

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.