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This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;

For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread,
In female grace the willow droops her head;
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung,
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung;
What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust,
Till waked to join the chorus of the just,--
Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,

Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here SEWARD lies! Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say,— Go seek her genius in her living lay.

THE RETURN TO ULSTER.

ONCE again, but how changed since my wanderings began

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Cambrassil resound to the roar,
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.

Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn;
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return?
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?

It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown:
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire
At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their lyre:
To me 't was not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall ;
And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.'
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou
burn?

yore.

They were days of delusion, and cannot return.

But was she too a phantom, the maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sun-beam or melted to dew?
Oh! would it had been so! Oh! would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,
Had been but a zephyr that sigh'd and was still!

heart

Oh! would it had been so! Not then this
poor
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,
«Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,
And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again!»>

In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beum of Macpherson.

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But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, We list the legends of our native land, Link'd as they come with every tender tie, Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil,

He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes,
And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!
It opens on his soul his native dell,

The woods wild waving, and the water's swell:
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;
The cot beneath whose simple porch were told,
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,
The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,'
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a daughter's love!

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.

FROM THE GAELIC.

THE original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;
To the chieftain this morning his course who began,
Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!
O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,
May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

Acadia, or Nova Scotia.]

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