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To wound the wretched pilgrims of the earth,
Making them rue the hour that gave them birth,

And threw them on a world so full of pain,
Where prosperous folly treads on patient worth,

And to deaf pride misfortune pleads in vain! Ah! for their future fate how many fears Oppress my heart, and fill mine eyes with tears !

The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove,

Each simple flower which she had nursed in dew,
Anemonies, that spangled every grove,

The primrose wan, and hare-bell mildly blue.
No more shall violets linger in the dell,

Or purple orchis variegate the plain,
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell,

And dress with humid hands her wreaths again.
Ah! poor Humanity! so frail, so fair,

Are the fond visions of thy early day,
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care

Bid all thy fairy colors fade away!
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring;
Ah! why bas Ilappiness no second Spring ?


Haunts of my youth!
Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet!
Where 'twas so pleasant, by thy northern slopes,
To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft
By scatter'd thorns, whose spiny branches bore
Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb
There seeking shelter from the noonday sun:
And pleasant, scated on the short soft turf,
To look beneath upon the hollow way,
While heavily upward moved the laboring wain,
And, stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind,
To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone
The grating wheel

Advancing higher still,
The prospect widens, and the village church
But little o'er the lowly roofs around
Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane;
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half conceal'd
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring,
When on each bough the rosy-tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which, as their owners mark the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the south
Surpass not these.

Where woods of ash, and beach,
And partial copses, fringe the green hill foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;

There wanders by a little nameless stream
That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear,
Or, after rain, with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage-garden; most for use design'd,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement; yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks
Grow among balm, and rosemary, and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow
Almost uncultured: some with dark green leaves
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
of richest crimson, while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.-
With fond regret I recollect, e'en now,
In Spring and Summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,
I loved her rudest scenes.

From "Beachy Head."


Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my humble hearth;
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good,
Pay me for thy warm retreat
With a song most soft and sweet;
In return thou shalt receive
Such a song as I can give.
Though in voice and shape they be
Form'd as if akin to thee,
Thou surpassest, happier far,
Happiest grasshoppers that are;
Their's is but a summer-song,
Thine endures the winter long,
Unimpair'd, and shrill, and clear,
Melody throughout the year.
Neither night nor dawn of day
Puts a period to thy lay:
Then, insect! let thy simple song
Cheer the winter evening long;
While, secure from every storm,
In my cottage stout and warm,
Thou shalt my merry minstrel be,
And I'll delight to shelter thee.

MARY TIGHE, 1774-1810.

Mrs. Many TIGHE was the daughter of the Rev. William Blatchford, of the county of Wicklow, Ireland. Her history seems to be but little known to the public, as I have tried in vain to find some account of her life; but her early death, which took place at Woodstock, near Kilkenny, March 24th, 1810, after six years of protracted suffering, has been commemorated by Moore, in a very beautiful lyric.

Mrs. Tighe is chiefly known by her poem of “Psyche,” in six cantos, written in the Spenserian stanza, founded on the classic fable of Apuleius, of the loves of Cupid and Psyche, or the allegory of Love and the Soul, (Yuxn.)? Many of the pictures in this, the chief production of her muse, are conceived in the true spirit of poetry, while over the whole composition is spread the richest glow of purified passion. It is a poem, however, to be read as a whole, and cannot well be appreciated by any detached passages. A luxurious, dreamy sweetness pervades the descriptions, and gives them a peculiar charm, while the elegance of the easy-flowing language attests the complete power of the poet over her theme. Some of her minor pieces, also, are exceedingly beautiful; and the lines “On Receiving a Branch of Mezereon,” are scarcely exceeded, for beauty and pathos, by any thing of the kind in the language.


When vex'd by cares and harass'd by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let Love, consoling Love! still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balın benignly shed:
His downy plumage, o'er thy pillow spread,
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose;
To Love the tender heart hath ever tled,

As on its mother's breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes.

Oh! fondly cherish, then, the lovely plant,
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease;
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant,
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze;
And when rude winter shall thy roses seize,
When naught through all thy bowers but thorns remain,
This still with undeciduous charms shall please,

Screen from the blast and shelter from the rain,
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.

Through the hard season, Love with plaintive note
Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing,
Which swells mid dreary snows its tuneful throat,
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing,

See this lyric in the Selections from Thomas Moore. 3 The fable, it is sail, is a representation of the soul here in its prison-house, suhjected to error. Trials are set before it to purity it; two loves meet it-the earthly, to draw it down to sensuous things; and the heavenly, who, directing its view above, gains the victory, and lcuis off the soul as his bride.

With cheerful promise of returning spring
To the mute tenants of the leafless grove.
Guard thy best treasure from the venom'd sting

Of baneful peevishness; oh! never prove
How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love!

The tears capricious beauty loves to shed,
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,
May wake the impassion'd lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong;
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long
Will not endure the frown of angry strife;
He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng

Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,
And flieg when discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife.

Oh! he will tell you that these quarrels bring
The ruin, not renewal, of his flame:
If oft repeated, lo! on rapid wing
He flies to hide his fair but tender frame;
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame
Irrevocably flies. Lament in vain!
Indifference comes the abandon'd heart to claim,

Asserts for ever her repulsive reign,
Close follow'd by disgust and all her chilling train.

Indifference, dreaded power! what art shall save
The good so cherish'd from thy grasping hand?
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave
Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand
The insidious foe, who with her leaden band
Enchains the thoughtless, slumbering deity ?
Ah, never more to wake! or e'er expand

His golden pinions to the breezy sky,
Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye.

Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway;
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang
Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey;
Sees rapture's brilliant colors fade away,
And all the glow of beaming sympathy;
Anxious to watch the cold averted ray

That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy?

Too faithful heart! thou never canst retrieve
Thy wither'd hopes: conceal the cruel pain !
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve;
But never to the unfeeling ear complain;
From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain!
Submit at once—the bitter task resign,
Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain;

Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine-
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine !

Psyche, Canto VI.

How wither'd, perish'd seems the form

Of yon obscure, unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of wintry storm

It hides secure the precious fruit.
The careless eye can find no grace,

No beauty in the scaly folds,
Nor see within the dark embrace

What latent loveliness it holds.
Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,

The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.
Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap

The undelighting, slighted thing;
There, in the cold earth buried deep,

In silence let it wait the spring.
Oh! many a stormy night shall close

In gloom upon the barren earth,
While still, in undisturb'd repose,

Uninjured lies the future birth!
And ignorance, with skeptic eye,

Hope's patient smile shall wondering view;
Or mock her fond credulity,

As her soft tears the spot bedew.
Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear!

The sun, the shower indeed shall come;
The promised verdant shoot appear,

And Nature bid her blossoms bloom.
And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring,

Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,

Unvail thy charms, and perfume shed;
Unfold thy robes of purest white,

Unsullied from their darksome grave-
And thy soft petals, silvery light,

In the mild breeze unfetter'd wave.
So Faith shall seek the lowly dust

Where humble Sorrow loves to lie,
And bid her thus her hopes intrust,

And watch with patient, cheerful eye;
And bear the long, cold, wintry night,

And bear her own degraded doom,
And wait till Heaven's reviving light,
Eternal Spring! shall burst the gloom.

May, 1809.


Odors of Spring, my sense ye charm

With fragrance premature ;

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