"Well might I know death's hue and mien,

But on thine aspect, boy!

What, till this moment, have I seen

Save pride and tameless joy? Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all—

How could I think a warrior's frame
Thus like a flower should fall?

"I will not bear that still cold look-
Rise up, thou fierce and free!

Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook
All, save this calm, from thee!

Lift brightly up, and proudly,
Once more thy kindling eyes!

Hath my word lost its power on earth?
I say to thee, arise!

"Didst thou not know I loved thee well?
Thou didst not! and art gone,
In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit!
If but one hour, to learn
The secrets of the folded heart

That seem'd to thee so stern.

"Thou wert the first, the first, fair child, That in mine arms I press'd:

Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled Like summer on my breast!

I rear'd thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse, I look upon thee-dead!

"Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,

And bury my red sword and spear,
Chiefs in my first-born's grave!
And leave me!-I have conquer'd,
I have slain-my work is done!
Whom have I slain?-ye answer not-
Thou too art mute, my son!"

And thus his wild lament was pour'd
Through the dark resounding night,
And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might.
He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sigh'd;

From the searching stars of heaven he shrank-
Humbly the conqueror died.

CAROLAN'S PROPHECY.'

Thy cheek too swiftly flushes, o'er thine eye
The lights and shadows come and go too fast;
Thy tears gush forth too soon, and in thy voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate

For peace on earth; oh! therefore, child of song!
"Tis well thou wouldst depart.

A SOUND of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness.-There sat a bard
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing through rock and woed; the sunset's light
Was on its wavy, silver-gleaming hair,

And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash,

1 Founded on the following circumstance related in the Percy Anecdotes of imagination.

"It is somewhat remarkable that Carolan, the Irish bard, even in his gayest mood, never could compose a planxty for a Miss Brett, in the county of Sligo, whose father's house he frequented, and where he always met with a reception due to his exquisite taste and mental endowments. One day, after an unsuccessful attempt to compose something in a sprightly strain for this lady, he threw aside his harp with a mixture of rage and grief; and addressing himself in Irish to her mother, "Madam," said he, "I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty in order to celebrate your daughter's perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me; there is not a string in my harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound when I set about this task. I fear she is not doomed to remain long among us; nay,' said he, emphatically, 'she will not survive twelve months.' The event verified the prediction, and the young lady died within the period limited by the unconsciously prophetic bard."

Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd,
His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch
Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood,
Waiting around in silent earnestness,

Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song-
Many and graceful forms!-yet one alone
Seem'd present to his dream; and she, indeed,
With her pale, virgin brow, and changeful cheek,
And the clear starlight of her serious eyes,
Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks
And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful,
E'en painfully !-a creature to behold.

With trembling 'midst our joy, lest aught unseen
Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth
Too dim without its brightness!-Did such fear
O'ershadow in that hour the gifted one,

By his own rushing stream?-Once more he gazed
Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more
From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out
A few short festive notes, an opening strain
Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief,
As if some wailing spirit in the strings
Met and o'ermaster'd him; but yielding then
To the strong prophet-impulse, mournfully,
Like moaning waters o'er the harp he pour'd
The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang-

Voice of the grave!

I hear thy thrilling call;

It comes in the dash of the foaming wave,
In the sere-leaf's trembling fall!

In the shiver of the tree,

I hear thee, O thou voice!

And I would thy warning were but for me, That my spirit might rejoice.

But thou art sent

For the sad earth's young and fair, For the graceful heads that have not bent To the wintry hand of care! They hear the wind's low sigh, And the river sweeping free,

And the green reeds murmuring heavily, And the woods-but they hear not thee!

Long have I striven

With my deep foreboding soul,

But the full tide now its bounds hath riven, And darkly on must roll.

There's a young brow smiling near,

With a bridal white rose wreathUnto me it smiles from a flowery bier, Touch'd solemnly by death!

Fair art thou, Morna!

The sadness of thine eye

Is beautiful as silvery clouds

On the dark blue summer sky!

And thy voice comes like the sound

Of a sweet and hidden rill,

That makes the dim woods tuneful roundBut soon it must be still !