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158 HYLAND'S MAMMOTH
"The wan moon Is setting behind the white wave,
And time Is setting with me, O! False friends, false love, farewell—for more
I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, O!" She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;
She sees his pale corse on the plain, O! "My true love!" she cried, and sunk down by his sidt,
O! never to rise again, O!
NORA CREINA, SEE THE FLOW'RS.
Nora Crelna, see the flow'rs,
The lovely flow'rs that all seem'd perish'd, The tendrils we together trained.
The blossoms we so fondly cherish'd. Now beneath the summer's sun,
Gladly walking, gaily springing, O'er the bow'r their trellis weave,
Sweetest perfumes round thee flinging, Nora Creina! Nora Dear!
Lovely darling, Nora Creina! Nora Creina! Nora Dear!
Lovely darling, Nora Creina? Nora Creina, see the birds,
We thought for ever flown away, love, Whose nest was in the linden tree,
Whose young would round thy footsteps play, 1ot«, Now the weary winter's past,
O'er the wild wave gaily winging, Come to seek thy smiles again,
'Neath thy lattice sweetly singing, Nora Creina Nora dear!
Spirits watch o'er Nora Creina! Nora Creina! Nora dear!
Thus my love is thine forever; Tho' stern fate's decree is past,
Two fond hearts awhile to sever. Nora, dariing! wipe away,
The tear that's In thy blue eye starting! Soon, love, we shall meet again,
And still more fondly for the parting, Nora Creina! Nora dear!
My sweet, my own my Nora Creina!
THE EXILE'S RE(1UEST.
Oh, Pilgrim, If you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, Let it be some token still of the green old land, once mine; A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me, Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italie. For I was born in Ireland—I glory in the name— I weep for all her sorrows, I remember well her fame! And still my heart must hope that I may yet repose at rest, On the Holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel of the West. Her beauteous face is furrowed with sorrow's streaming rains, Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's ancient chains, Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless heart or eye, The Island of the gifted, and of men who knew to die. Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without is bleak and bare, But the vigor of its lips still show what fire and force were there, Even now in the heaving craters, far from the gazer's ken, The fiery heel is forging that will crush her foes again. Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off lands a sign, Let it be some token still of the green old land, once mine; A shell from the shores of Ireland would be dearer far to me, Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the art of Italle. |
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