Were I offer'd all the wealth that Albion yields,
All her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields,
With the countless riches of her subject seas,
I would scorn the change for blisses such as these!
Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells,
Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells,
Sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree,
Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.
EVAN M'COLL.[16]
THE CHILD OF PROMISE.
She died—as die the roses
On the ruddy clouds of dawn,
When the envious sun discloses
His flame, and morning 's gone.
She died—like waves of sun-glow
Fast by the shadows chased:
She died—like heaven's rainbow
By gushing showers effaced.
She died—like flakes appearing
On the shore beside the sea;
Thy snow as bright! but, nearing,
The ground-swell broke on thee.
She died—as dies the glory
Of music's sweetest swell:
She died—as dies the story
When the best is still to tell.
She died—as dies moon-beaming
When scowls the rayless wave:
She died—like sweetest dreaming,
That hastens to its grave.