WOMAN AND FAME.

HAPPY-happier far than thou,
With the laurel on thy brow;
She that makes the humblest hearth
Lovely but to one on earth.

Thou hast a charmed cup, O Fame,

A draught that mantles high,
And seems to lift this earthly frame
Above mortality.

Away! to me-a woman-bring
Sweet water from affection's spring.

Thou hast green laurel leaves that twine
Into so proud a wreath;

For that resplendent gift of thine,

Heroes have smiled in death.
Give me from some kind hand a flower,
The record of one happy hour!

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone
Can bid each life-pulse beat,
As when a trumpet's note hath blown,
Calling the brave to meet :

But mine, let mine-a woman's breast, By words of home-born love be bless'd.

A hollow sound is in thy song,

A mockery in thine eye,
To the sick heart that doth but long
For aid, for sympathy,

For kindly looks to cheer it on,
For tender accents that are gone.

Fame, Fame! thou canst not be the stay Unto the drooping reed,

The cool fresh fountain in the day

Of the soul's feverish need:

Where must the lone one turn or flee? Not unto thee, oh! not to thee!

THE POETRY OF THE PSALMS.

NOBLY thy song, O minstrel! rush'd to meet
Th' Eternal on the pathway of the blast,
With darkness round him, as a mantle, cast,
And cherubim, to waft his flying seat.
Amidst the hills, that smoked beneath his feet,
With trumpet voice thy spirit call'd aloud,
And bade the trembling rocks his name repeat,
And the bent cedars, and the bursting cloud,
But far more gloriously to earth made known

By that high strain, than by the thunder's tone, Than flashing torrents, or the ocean's roll; Jehovah spoke through the inbreathing fire, Nature's vast realms for ever to inspire

With the deep worship of a living soul.

Dublin, April, 1835.