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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 shouldst 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 thro' rock and wood; the sunset's light
Was on his wavy silver-gleaming hair,

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

*Founded on a circumstance related of the Irish Bard, in the "Percy Anecdotes of Imagination."

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,
Ev'n 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 gaz'd
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 dashed 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 sear 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 wreath,— Unto 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 round

But soon it must be still!

Silence and dust

On thy sunny lips must lie,

Make not the strength of love thy trust,

A stronger yet is nigh!

No strain of festal flow

my hand for thee hath tried,
But into dirge-notes wild and low,
Its ringing tones have died.

Young art thou, Morna!

Yet on thy gentle head,

Like heavy dew on the lily's leaves,
A spirit hath been shed!

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