One dying wish my lone bosom can draw :
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !
Land of my fore-fathers! Erin go bragh I
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean !
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin mavournin !—Erin go bragh !
While all is not lost, all is ultimately retrievable.
Canning.
Love's softest images spring up anew in solitude. The remembrance of those emotions, which the first blush of conscious tenderness, the first gent'e pressure of the hand, the first dread of interruption create, recurs incessantly. Time, it is said, extinguishes the flame of love; but solitude renews the fire, and calls forth those agents which lie long concealed, and only wait a favourable moment to display their powers. The whole course of youthful feeling again beams forth; and the mind—delicious recollection!—fondly retracing the first affection of the hearl, fills the bosom with an indelible sense of those high extasies which, for the first time, proclaim that happy discovery, that fortunate moment when two lovers first discover their mutual fondness. Zimmermann.
