ood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
O my sad heart! long abandoned 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 recall.

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 mavourneen, Erin go bragh![A]

[Footnote A: Ireland my darling, Ireland forever!]

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

AFTER DEATH.

Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country?
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory?
Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the
sun-blaze breaks at last upon thy story?
When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle,
as a sweet new sister hail thee,

Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and
silence, that have known but to bewail thee?
Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises,
when all men their tribute bring thee?
Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy
squalor, when all poets' mouths shall sing thee?

Ah, the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings
of thy exiled sons returning!
I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and
the grave-damps should not chill my bosom's burning.

Ah, the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear
them 'mid the shamrocks and the mosses,
And my heart should toss within the shroud and
quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.

I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me,
giant sinews I should borrow--
Crying, "O my brothers, I have also loved her in
her loneliness and sorrow.

"Let me join with you the jubilant procession;
let me chant with you her story;
Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks,
now mine eyes have seen her glory!"

FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL.

* * * * *

CANADA NOT LAST.

AT VENICE.

Lo Venice, gay with color, lights and song,
Calls from St. Mark's with ancient voice and strange:
I am the Witch of Cities! glide along
My silver streets that never wear by change
Of years: forget the years, and pain, and wrong,
And ever sorrow reigning