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THE INCONSTANT.

BY EDMUND RYAN, CALLED EDMUND OF THE HILL.

BRIGHT her locks of beauty grew,

Curling fair and sweetly flowing, And her eyes of smiling blue,

Oh how soft! how heav'nly glowing!

Ah! poor heart oppress'd with pain,

When wilt thou have end of mourning?—

This long, long year I look in vain
To see my only hope returning.

Oh! would thy promise faithful prove,
And to my fond, fond bosom give thee,
Lightly then my steps would move,
Joyful should my arms receive thee.

Then once more, at early morn,
Hand-in-hand should we be straying,
Where the dew-drop decks the thorn
With its pearls the woods arraying.

Cold and scornful as thou art,

Love's fond vows and faith belying, Shame for thee now rends my heart,

My pale cheek with blushes dying!

Why art thou false to me and Love?—

While health and joy with thee are vanish'd-Is it because forlorn I rove,

Without a crime unjustly banish'd?

'Tis thy Edmund calls thee, Love,
Come, O come and heal his anguish ;
Driven from home, behold him rove
Condemn'd in exile here to languish.

O thou dear cause of all my pains,
With thy charms each heart subduing,
Come, on Munster's lovely plains

Hear again fond passion suing.

Music, mirth and sports are here,

Chearful friends the hours beguiling ;

Oh! wouldst thou, my Love, appear,
To joy my bosom reconciling,-

Sweet would seem the holly's shade
Bright the clust'ring berries glowing;
And in scented bloom array'd
Apple-blossoms round us blowing;

Cresses waving in the stream,

Flowers its gentle banks perfuming ; Sweet the verdant paths would seem, All in rich luxuriance blooming.

Every scene with thee would please,
Every care and fear would fly me;
Wintry storms, and raging seas

Would lose their gloom, if thou wert nigh

me.

O might I call thee now my own,

No added rapture joy could borrow; 'Twould be like Heaven, when life is flown, To chear the soul and heal its sorrow.

See thy falsehood, cruel maid!

See my

cheek no longer glowing;

Strength departed, health decay'd,

Life in tears of sorrow flowing!

Why do I thus my anguish tell?

Why pride in woe, and boast of ruin ?— O lost treasure, fare thee well!

Loved to madness, to undoing.

How the swan adorns that neck,

There her down and whiteness growing!

How its snow those tresses deck,

Bright in fair luxuriance flowing!

Mine, of right, are all those charms! Cease with coldness then to grieve me; Take, O take me to thy arms,

Or those of Death will soon receive me.

BY THE SAME.

As the sweet blackberry's modest bloom
Fair-flowering greets the sight;

As strawberries, in their rich perfume
Fragrance and bloom unite:

So thou, fair plant of tender youth,
With loveliest forms might'st vie,
While, from within, the soul of truth
Soft beaming, fills thine eye.

Pulse of my heart; dear source of care,
Stol'n sighs and love-breathed vows;
Sweeter than when through scented air
Gay bloom the apple-boughs;

With thee no days can winter seem,
Nor frost, nor blast can chill ;—

Thou the soft breeze, the chearing beam
That keeps it summer still.

THE COMPLAINT.

BY THE SAME.

OH! what woes are mine to bear,

Life's fair morn with clouds o'ercasting! Doom'd the victim of Despair,

Youth's gay bloom pale sorrow blasting.

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