Preface

Preface

Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "animae dimidium" in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.

IRISH MELODIES

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee, Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh! then remember me!

When, at eve, thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning, Oh! thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh! then, remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh! still remember me. Then should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee,-- Oh! then remember me.

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.[1]

Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,[2] He returns to Kinkora no more.[3] That star of the field, which so often hath poured Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood[4] In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirred not, but conquered and died. That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain;-- Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain.

[1] Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

[2] Munster.

[3] The palace of Brien.

[4] This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest,--"Let stakes[they said] be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us to be tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hundred men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops;--never was such another sight exhibited."--"History of Ireland," book xii. chap i.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! Shining through sorrow's stream, Saddening through pleasure's beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise.

Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow's light, Thy various tints unite, And form in heaven's sight One arch of peace!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, tho' in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind, Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame Of a life that for thee was resigned? Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Thy tears shall efface their decree; For Heaven can witness, tho' guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; Every thought of my reason was thine; In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine. Oh! blest are the lovers and friend who shall live The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS.

The harp that once thro' Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls. As if that soul were fled.-- So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throbs she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks. To show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night, And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,-- Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, and oh, 'tis pain To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that played In times of old through Ammon's shade, Though icy cold by day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn when night was near. And thus, should woman's heart and looks, At noon be cold as winter brooks, Nor kindle till the night, returning, Brings their genial hour for burning. Oh! stay,--Oh! stay,-- When did morning ever break, And find such beaming eyes awake As those that sparkle here?

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to morrow to brighten my brow. No!--life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touched by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile-- May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined: And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind. But they who have loved the fondest, the purest. Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; And the heart that has slumbered in friendship, securest, Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived. But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,-- That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we room.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore, Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes; And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.[1]

[1] "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII, an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired."--"Walker's "Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards," p. 184. Mr. Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.[1]

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear, to stray, "So lone and lovely through this bleak way? "Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, "As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, "No son of Erin will offer me harm:-- "For though they love woman and golden store, "Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more!"

On she went and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle; And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride.

[1] This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:--"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."--Warner's "History of Ireland," vol i, book x.

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes. To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting--

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.[1]

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2] Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! no,--it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best. Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

[1] "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.

[2] The rivers Avon and Avoca.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still; Some hand, more calm and sage, The leaf must fill. Thoughts come, as pure as light Pure as even you require: But, oh! each word I write Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book: Oft shall my heart renew, When on its leaves I look, Dear thoughts of you. Like you, 'tis fair and bright; Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes Far, far away I roam. Should calmer thoughts arise Towards you and home; Fancy may trace some line, Worthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but shine, Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as, o'er ocean, far, Seamen their records keep, Led by some hidden star Thro' the cold deep; So may the words I write Tell thro' what storms I stray-- You still the unseen light, Guiding my way.

THE LEGACY.

When in death I shall calmly recline, O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here. Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary travellers love to call.[1] Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song. Keep this cup, which is now o'er-flowing, To grace your revel, when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty has seldom blest. But when some warm devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.

[1] "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music."--O'Halloran.

HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Banshee cried, How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove, Sweet bonds entwined by Love! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth; Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth; Long may the fair and brave Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fallen upon gloomy days![1] Star after star decays, Every bright name, that shed Light o'er the land, is fled. Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth; But brightly flows the tear, Wept o'er a hero's bier.

Quenched are our beacon lights-- Thou, of the Hundred Fights![2] Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung! Both mute,--but long as valor shineth, Or Mercy's soul at war repineth, So long shall Erin's pride Tell how they lived and died.

[1] I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

[2] This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. "Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories."

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast, Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle, For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

In England, the garden of Beauty is kept By a dragon of prudery placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden's but carelessly watched after all. Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, Which round the flowers of Erin dwells; Which warns the touch, while winning the sense, Nor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-by. While the daughters of Erin keep the boy, Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Thro' billows of woe, and beams of joy, The same as he looked when he left the shore. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

Oh! weep for the hour, When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came; The moon hid her light From the heavens that night. And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds past soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame: But none will see the day, When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

The white snow lay On the narrow path-way, When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Showed the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace on the path where the false Lord came; But there's a light above, Which alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

Let Erin remember the days of old. Ere her faithless sons betrayed her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1] Which he won from her proud invader. When her kings, with standard of green unfurled, Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;[2] Ere the emerald gem of the western world Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays, When the clear cold eve's declining, He sees the round towers of other days In the wave beneath him shining: Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, Catch a glimpse of the days that are over; Thus, sighing, look thro' the waves of time For the long-faded glories they cover.[3]

[1] "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."--Warner's "History of Ireland," vol. i. book ix.

[2] "Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier."--O'Halloran's Introduction, etc., part 1, chap. 5.

[3] It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1]

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. When shall the swan, her death-note singing, Sleep, with wings in darkness furled? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping, Fate bids me languish long ages away; Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, Still doth the pure light its dawning delay. When will that day-star, mildly springing, Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?

[1] To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release,--I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; This moment's a flower too fair and brief, To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain. Oh, Liberty! let not this Spirit have rest, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west-- Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!

If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights, If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia; our cause is the same! And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain, Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light, May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause!--oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive. Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die! The finger of Glory shall point where they lie; While, far from the footstep of coward or slave. The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art. Let thy loveliness fade as it will. And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1] And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm. Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising, when others are set; And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchilled by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour, Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past, And the hope that lived thro' it shall blossom at last.

[1] The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions.

DRINK TO HER.

Drink to her, who long, Hath waked the poet's sigh. The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone; By other fingers played, It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her 'which might pass?" She answered, "he, who could." With golden key Wealth thought To pass--but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through. So here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome, That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above, Tho' woman keeps it here. Then drink to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1]

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;[2] And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!--her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget, what he never can heal: Oh! give but a hope--let a vista but gleam Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nurst, every bliss it adored; While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; Not even in the hour, when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

[1] We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

[2] It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord." Lloyd's "State Worthies," art. The Lord Grandison.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turned, To look at orbs, that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burned. But too far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame; Much more dear That mild sphere. Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my own; While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meet. Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. I said (while The moon's smile Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) "The moon looks "On many brooks, "The brook can see no moon but this;"[1] And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me.

[1] This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere In Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many night- flowers, the night flower sees but one moon."

ILL OMENS.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone. Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone. For the youth! whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she looked in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses. Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly,[1] fresh from the night-flower's kisses. Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brushed him--he fell, alas; never to rise: "Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces, "For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, She culled some, and kist off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, looked so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too: But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost: "Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sighed at its meaning), "That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

[1] An emblem of the soul.

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife; By that sun, whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life-- Oh! remember life can be No charm for him, who lives not free! Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero in his grave, Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine And light him down the steep of years:-- But oh, how blest they sink to rest, Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers, Where we tamed his tyrant might. Never let him bind again A chain; like that we broke from then. Hark! the horn of combat calls-- Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round![1] Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound-- But oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

[1] "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."--Walker.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night closed around the conqueror's way, And lightnings showed the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day, Stood few and faint, but fearless still. The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, For ever dimmed, for ever crost-- Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honor's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream, And valor's task, moved slowly by, While mute they watcht, till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die. There's yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;-- If death that world's bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear. And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips, we are near. The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling, Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself and make closely its own.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise. To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be sure to find something still that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1]

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way, Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned; She wooed me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves; Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail-- Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale. They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains-- Oh! foul is the slander,--no chain could that soul subdue-- Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too![2]

[1] Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

[2] "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"--St. Paul's Corinthians ii., l7.

ON MUSIC.

When thro' life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh! how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept; Kindling former smiles again In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along Beds of oriental flowers, Is the grateful breath of song, That once was heard in happier hours; Filled with balm, the gale sighs on, Tho' the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Why should Feeling ever speak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign, Love's are even more false than they; Oh! 'tis only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1]

It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; 'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how we lived but to love them. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume Where buried saints are lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom From the image he left there in dying!

[1] These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters roved, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep; Till heaven looked with pity on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair--still her cheeks smiled the same-- While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame; And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, Was changed to bright chords uttering melody's spell.

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come,

Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one lov'd name.

No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1]

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile thro' our tears, like a sunbeam in showers: There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More formed to be grateful and blest than ours. But just when the chain Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirits to sink-- Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But, tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The Standard of Green In front would be seen,-- Oh, my life on your faith! were you summoned this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget; And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray: Each fragment will cast A light, to the last,-- And thus, Erin, my country tho' broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

[1] This song was written for a fête in honor of the Prince of Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more. In vain the hero's heart hath bled; The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;-- Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again.

Weep on--perhaps in after days, They'll learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise That long hath slept in blame. And when they tread the ruined isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate "Your web of discord wove; "And while your tyrants joined in hate, "You never joined in love. "But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, "And man profaned what God had given; "Till some were heard to curse the shrine, "Where others knelt to heaven!"

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, Like unexpected light, surprises! Oh, My Nora Creina, dear, My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, My Nora Creina.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature placed it. Oh! my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. Yes, my Nora Creina, dear. My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness-- The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined, But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're designed To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillowed on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes-- Bed of peace! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh! my Nora Creina dear, My mild, my artless Nora Creina, Wit, though bright, Hath no such light, As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light, Which fleets not with the breath; And life ne'er looked more truly bright Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines, Yet humbly, calmly glide, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Within their gentle tide, Mary! So veiled beneath the simplest guise, Thy radiant genius shone, And that, which charmed all other eyes, Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; Or could we keep the souls we love, We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! Though many a gifted mind we meet, Though fairest forms we see, To live with them is far less sweet, Than to remember thee, Mary!

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.[1]

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2] Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young St. Kevin stole to sleep. "Here, at least," he calmly said, "Woman ne'er shall find my bed." Ah! the good Saint little knew What that wily sex can do."

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-- Eyes of most unholy blue! She had loved him well and long Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong. Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly, Still he heard her light foot nigh; East or west, where'er he turned, Still her eyes before him burned.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Tranquil now, he sleeps at last; Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er Woman's smile can haunt him there. But nor earth nor heaven is free, From her power, if fond she be: Even now, while calm he sleeps, Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked his feet To this rocky, wild retreat; And when morning met his view, Her mild glances met it, too. Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts! Sternly from his bed he starts, And with rude, repulsive shock, Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late,) Felt her love, and mourned her fate. When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!" Round the Lake light music stole; And her ghost was seen to glide, Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

[1] This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

[2] There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking;-- Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl, Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that love in his fairy bower, Had two blush-roses of birth divine; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds, That drank of the floods Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1] On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed! For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,[2] When Ulad's[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore-- By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore--

We swear to revenge them!--no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

[1] The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman.

[2] "Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."--Deirdri's Song.

[3] Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

HE.

What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Thro' the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing, Is to waves that wander near, Whispering kisses, while they're going, That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone; And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, If sunny banks will wear away, Tis but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers "To heaven in mingled odor ascend. "Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! "So like is thy form to the cherubs above, "It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

Love stood near the Novice and listened, And Love is no novice in taking a hint; His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened; His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint. "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise "His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise. He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. Love is the Saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep,-- Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed. The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup--if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way. Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet;--while Idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

Thro' Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valor wandered, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squandered. Where'er they pass, A triple grass[1] Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming. As softly green As emeralds seen Thro' purest crystal gleaming. Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf. Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Says Valor, "See, "They spring for me, "Those leafy gems of morning!"-- Says Love, "No, no, "For me they grow, "My fragrant path adorning." But Wit perceives The triple leaves, And cries, "Oh! do not sever "A type, that blends "Three godlike friends, "Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!" Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond May last the bond, They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather. May Love, as twine His flowers divine. Of thorny falsehood weed 'em; May Valor ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom! Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

[1] It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air, To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remembered, even in the sky.

Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear When our voices commingling breathed, like one, on the ear; And, as Echo far off thro' the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,[1] Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

[1] "There are countries." says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and there it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo."

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

One bumper at parting!--tho' many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any Remains to be crowned by us yet. The sweetness that pleasure hath in it, Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth. But come,--may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant To pause and inhabit awhile Those few sunny spots, like the present, That mid the dull wilderness smile! But Time, like a pitiless master, Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours-- Ah, never doth Time travel faster, Than when his way lies among flowers. But come--may our life's happy measure Be all of such moments made up; They're born on the bosom of Pleasure, They die midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun looked in sinking, The waters beneath him how bright; And now, let our farewell of drinking Resemble that farewell of light. You saw how he finished, by darting His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-- So, fill up, let's shine at our parting, In full liquid glory, like him. And oh! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this be made up, 'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure, It dies mid the tears of the cup.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping. Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on. And his wild harp slung behind him. "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, "One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, "One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, "No chains shall sully thee, "Thou soul of love and bravery! "Thy songs were made for the pure and free, "They shall never sound in slavery."

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.[1]

The valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That saddened the joy of my mind. I looked for the lamp which, she told me, Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned; But, tho' darkness began to infold me, No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber--'twas lonely, As if the loved tenant lay dead;-- Ah, would it were death, and death only! But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss; While the hand, that had waked it so often, Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women, When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, thro' a million of foe-men, Who dared but to wrong thee in thought! While now--oh degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame! And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, Our country shall bleed for thy shame.

Already, the curse is upon her, And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide, to dishonor, And tyrants they long will remain. But onward!--the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is Virtue and Erin, On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.

[1] These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran:--"The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark, intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-- The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMurchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

"Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation) "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. With affection as free From decline as the bowers, And, with hope, like the bee, Living always on flowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.

FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour. That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain. But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-- Too blest, if it tells me that, mid the gay cheer Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!"

Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled-- You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

Oh! doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall watch the fire awaked by love. Altho' this heart was early blown, And fairest hands disturbed the tree, They only shook some blossoms down, Its fruit has all been kept for thee. Then doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

And tho' my lute no longer May sing of Passion's ardent spell, Yet, trust me, all the stronger I feel the bliss I do not tell. The bee thro' many a garden roves, And hums his lay of courtship o'er, But when he finds the flower he loves, He settles there, and hums no more. Then doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly kept me free, And now the vestal, Reason, Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blest her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toiled through winds and rains, Till William, at length, in sadness said, "We must seek our fortune on other plains;"-- Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roamed a long and a weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. "To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there; "The wind blows cold, the hour is late:" So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the Porter bowed, as they past the gate.

"Now, welcome, Lady," exclaimed the youth,-- "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!" She believed him crazed, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger wooed and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too; I'd weep when friends deceive me, If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I've thee before me, With heart so warm and eyes so bright, No clouds can linger o'er me, That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me, While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me, Unless joy be shared with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long, an endless year Of waking bliss without thee, My own love, my only dear!

And tho' the hope be gone, love, That long sparkled o'er our way, Oh! we shall journey on, love, More safely, without its ray. Far better lights shall win me Along the path I've yet to roam:-- The mind that burns within me, And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted. And looks round in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.

COME O'ER THE SEA.

Come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not. Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea Made for the Free, Land for courts and chains alone? Here we are slaves, But, on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own. No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us-- Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded, That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear?-- Then, child of misfortune, come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender, Been like our Lagenian mine,[1] Where sparkles of golden splendor All over the surface shine-- But, if in pursuit we go deeper, Allured by the gleam that shone, Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper, Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,[2] That flitted from tree to tree With the talisman's glittering glory-- Has Hope been that bird to thee? On branch after branch alighting, The gem did she still display, And, when nearest and most inviting. Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted, When sorrow itself looked bright; If thus the fair hope hath cheated, That led thee along so light; If thus the cold world now wither Each feeling that once was dear:-- Come, child of misfortune, come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

[1] Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.

[2] "The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," etc.--"Arabian Nights."

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, When half-awaking from fearful slumbers, He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,-- Than came that voice, when, all forsaken. This heart long had sleeping lain, Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell-- Each secret winding, each inmost feeling Of my soul echoed to its spell. 'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!-- I'd live years of grief and pain To have my long sleep of sorrow broken By such benign, blessed sounds again.

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

When first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee. And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw the change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, tho' false to all beside, From me thou couldst not wander. But go, deceiver! go, The heart, whose hopes could make it Trust one so false, so low, Deserves that thou shouldst break it.

When every tongue thy follies named, I fled the unwelcome story; Or found, in even the faults they blamed, Some gleams of future glory. I still was true, when nearer friends Conspired to wrong, to slight thee; The heart that now thy falsehood rends, Would then have bled to right thee, But go, deceiver! go,-- Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken From pleasure's dream, to know The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee: The few, who loved thee once, have fled, And they who flatter scorn thee. Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, No genial ties enwreath it; The smiling there, like light on graves, Has rank cold hearts beneath it. Go--go--tho' worlds were thine, I would not now surrender One taintless tear of mine For all thy guilty splendor!

And days may come, thou false one! yet, When even those ties shall sever; When thou wilt call, with vain regret, On her thou'st lost for ever; On her who, in thy fortune's fall, With smiles had still received thee, And gladly died to prove thee all Her fancy first believed thee. Go--go--'tis vain to curse, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies-- "Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, "I've watched for some glory like thine to arise. "For, tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, "And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;-- "But oh! there is not "One dishonoring blot "On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, "The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known; "Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. "At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, "Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, "And, bright o'er the flood "Of her tears and her blood, "Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the Sprite,[1] Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me, But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turned away, O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No, vain, alas! the endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

[1] This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed, and in your power;--but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan, (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.

WHERE IS THE SLAVE.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly, Condemned to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decayed it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin.--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouched and blowing, Than that, whose braid Is plucked to shade The brows with victory glowing We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o'er us, The friends we've tried Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,-- Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead-- When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled. 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.[1] Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid! Then, then--had one Hymn of Deliverance blended The tongues of all nations--how sweet had ascended The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee!

But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing! And shame on the light race, unworthy its good, Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood. Then vanished for ever that fair, sunny vision, Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision, Shall long be remembered, pure, bright, and elysian, As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.

[1] "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on; I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining, The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.

And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;-- Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame, And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.

FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when thro' the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starred dominions:-- So we, Sages, sit, And, mid bumpers brightening, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning.

Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit? It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us:

The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfered fire in.-- But oh his joy, when, round The halls of Heaven spying, Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying!

Some drops were in the bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mixt their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1] When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have wakened thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touched by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbbed at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

[1] The chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of "a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks."

MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumbering strain; In tears our last farewell was taken, And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But, like those Harps whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken, Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes--that now art turned to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Tho' joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, My drooping Harp, from chords like thine? Alas, the lark's gay morning measure As ill would suit the swan's decline! Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains, When even the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mixt--half flowers, half chains?

But come--if yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding, Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-- Like Memnon's broken image sounding, Mid desolation tuneful still!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;-- Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then is the time when affection holds sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid the flowers, Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth; 'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers, That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth. So it is not mid splendor, prosperity, mirth, That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears; To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth, But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still looked back To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loathe we part from all we love. From all the links that bind us; So turn our hearts as on we rove, To those we've left behind us.

When, round the bowl, of vanished years We talk, with joyous seeming,-- With smiles that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle, or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And naught but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss, If heaven had but assigned us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,-- So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consigned us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind us.

WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH.

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then; Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed, Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again. And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam, Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star That arose on his darkness and guided him home.

From thee and thy innocent beauty first came The revealings, that taught him true love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild, Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled On his evening horizon, the light was from thee.

And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise, And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray, He but turned to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanished away. As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him, He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there.

REMEMBER THEE.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart, It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art; More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow, But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons-- Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest, Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

WREATH THE BOWL.

Wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us. Should Love amid The wreaths be hid, That joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear, While wine is near, We'll drown him if he stings us, Then, wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.

'Twas nectar fed Of old, 'tis said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; And man may brew His nectar too, The rich receipt's as follows: Take wine like this, Let looks of bliss Around it well be blended, Then bring wit's beam To warm the stream, And there's your nectar, splendid! So wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.

Say, why did Time His glass sublime Fill up with sands unsightly, When wine, he knew, Runs brisker through, And sparkles far more brightly? Oh, lend it us, And, smiling thus, The glass in two we'll sever, Make pleasure glide In double tide, And fill both ends for ever! Then wreath the bowl With flowers of soul The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.

WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, So full of hope, and joy, and light, As if no cloud could ever rise, To dim a heaven so purely bright-- I sigh to think how soon that brow In grief may lose its every ray, And that light heart, so joyous now, Almost forget it once was gay.

For time will come with all its blights, The ruined hope, the friend unkind, And love, that leaves, where'er it lights, A chilled or burning heart behind:-- While youth, that now like snow appears, Ere sullied by the darkening rain, When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears Can ever shine so bright again.

IF THOU'LT BE MINE.

If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air, Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet; Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair, Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet, Shall be ours--if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, A voice divine shall talk in each stream; The stars shall look like worlds of love, And this earth be all one beautiful dream In our eyes--if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, Like streams, that come from heavenward hills, Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie To be bathed by those eternal rills, Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

All this and more the Spirit of Love Can breathe o'er them, who feel his spells; That heaven, which forms his home above, He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, As thou'lt own.--if thou wilt be mine, love!

TO LADIES' EYES.

To Ladies' eyes around, boy, We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, 'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, The countless eyes that brighten This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup--where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy, They seem but given, they seem but given, As shining beacons, solely, To light to heaven, to light to heaven. While some--oh! ne'er believe them-- With tempting ray, with tempting ray, Would lead us (God forgive them!) The other way, the other way. But fill the cup--where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all!

In some, as in a mirror, Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed, But shun the flattering error, 'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. Himself has fixt his dwelling In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips--but this is telling-- So here they go! so here they go! Fill up, fill up--where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all!

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

Forget not the field where they perished, The truest, the last of the brave, All gone--and the bright hope we cherished Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before, In the face of high heaven to fight over That combat for freedom once more;--

Could the chain for an instant be riven Which Tyranny flung round us then, No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past--and, tho' blazoned in story The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison, Illumed by one patriot name, Than the trophies of all, who have risen On Liberty's ruins to fame.

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

They may rail at this life--from the hour I began it, I found it a life full of kindness and bliss; And, until they can show me some happier planet, More social and bright, I'll content me with this. As long as the world has such lips and such eyes, As before me this moment enraptured I see, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them, They've none, even there, more enamored than I. And as long as this harp can be wakened to love, And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor, At twilight so often we've roamed thro' the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. But tho' they were even more bright than the queen Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never those fair young celestials have seen, Why--this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare, Oh! think what a world we should have of it here, If the haters of peace, of affection and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

Oh for the swords of former time! Oh for the men who bore them, When armed for Right, they stood sublime, And tyrants crouched before them: When free yet, ere courts began With honors to enslave him, The best honors worn by Man Were those which Virtue gave him. Oh for the swords, etc.

Oh for the kings who flourished then! Oh for the pomp that crowned them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them. When, safe built on bosoms true, The throne was but the centre, Round which Love a circle drew, That Treason durst not enter. Oh for the kings who flourished then! Oh for the pomp that crowned them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them!

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.[1]

"Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."

THE LADY.

"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark, Thro' wintry winds and billows dark: I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer; Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned; The winds blew fresh, the bark returned; But legends hint, that had the maid Till morning's light delayed, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

[1] In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the "Acta Sanctorum Hiberniae," we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us How Time deals out his treasures? The golden moments lent us thus, Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, I'd number each glorious second: But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, Too quick and sweet to be reckoned. Then fill the cup--what is it to us How time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, Till Care, one summer's morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers, A dial, by way of warning. But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, As long as its light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on, And how fast that light was going. So fill the cup--what is it to us How Time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark-- Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say, "Tho' death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are, less false than they, Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee." Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space-- Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more: The stormiest sea's a resting place To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or--if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweet,-- Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart-- If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling" Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright things that blest them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3] Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow, That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4] Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5] The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.

[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."--Jer. xv. 9.

[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."--Isaiah, lxii. 4.

[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"-- Isaiah, xiv. 4.

[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover thee."--Isaiah, xiv. 11.

[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."--Isaiah, xlvil. 5.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in, Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distilled To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. Then drink of the cup--you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one-- Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful. And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame, Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden-- Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden. So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night, And I'll tell you your fortune truly As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light, To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition,--the image of him Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind, So fondly around you he'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find 'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion-- An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves, In far off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan; And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone; But still thus even in death, So sweet the living breath Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er, That ere, condemned, we go To freeze mid Hecla's snow, We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun In light-linked dance their circles run, Sweet May, shine thou for me; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Its lingering smile on golden eyes, Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naïads prepare his steed[1] for him Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, White Steed, most joy to thee; Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls, Fair Steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, I'll die for thee.

[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Than e'er beneath the moonlight star, Of horn or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, And only then,-- The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear, Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers, Where Youth resorts, but come to me: For mine's a garden of faded flowers, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears, And many a cup in silence pour; Our guests, the shades of former years, Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows, To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves, Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crowned, And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreached by all that sunshine round, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken For thee, thee, only thee. Like shores, by which some headlong bark To the ocean hurries, resting never, Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark, I know not, heed not, hastening ever To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing, And pain itself seems sweet when springing From thee, thee, only thee. Like spells, that naught on earth can break, Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken, This heart, howe'er the world may wake Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies?

No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost, Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers By which life is exalted, embellished, refined, Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours, While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime-- Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul, A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom, And for one sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro', As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head--

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,--

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined-- O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet's voice repeating That song, whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oh the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather-- For ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'em-- Give man but heart and freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, 'Tis mind alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh that sight entrancing, When the morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine! How fair thou art let others tell,-- To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell, When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care-- Through crowded haunts again to run, And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come, But, on the world's rude ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But thus in shadow, seem'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest--

Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! And all the lovelier for thy tears-- For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, But, when indeed they come divine-- The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-- When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.

He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here, Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death, He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, "Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away, 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

Fairest! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume, At golden sunset hover O'er scenes so full of bloom, As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays And fearlessly meets the ardor Of the warm Summer's gaze, With only her tears to guard her. Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs In grace majestic frowning; Like some bold warrior's brows That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair, That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course thro' air He hath been won down by them;--[1] Types, sweet maid, of thee, Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2] And caves, where the gem is sleeping, Bright as the tears thy lid Lets fall in lonely weeping. Glens,[3] where Ocean comes, To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, And harbors, worthiest homes Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand, So beautiful, shine before thee, Pride for thy own dear land Should haply be stealing o'er thee, Oh, let grief come first, O'er pride itself victorious-- Thinking how man hath curst What Heaven had made so glorious!

[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock."

[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."--O'Halloran.

[3] Glengariff.

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

Quick! we have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may; For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, And we must away, away! Grasp the pleasure that's flying, For oh, not Orpheus' strain Could keep sweet hours from dying, Or charm them to life again. Then, quick! we have but a second, Fill round the cup while you may; For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes. Like some young Hebe's lip, And half meets thine, and blushes That thou shouldst delay to sip. Shame, oh shame unto thee, If ever thou see'st that day, When a cup or lip shall woo thee, And turn untouched away! Then, quick! we have but a second, Fill round, fill round, while you may; For Time, the churl, hath beckoned, And we must away, away!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends, For all the long years I've been wandering away-- To see thus around me my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart, In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part, Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng, As letters some hand hath invisibly traced, When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining thro'; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, The more we should welcome and bless them the more; They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain, That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight-- 'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As bending over the stream he lay, There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light, And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled!--and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the flight Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look, The boy, bewildered, his pencil took, And, guided only by memory's light, Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried A voice, low whispering by his side, "Now turn and see,"--here the youth's delight Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea," Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee, "And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light "In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

As vanquished Erin wept beside The Boyne's ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide, Had dropt his loaded quiver. "Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts, "Where mortal eye may shun you; "Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts, "That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,-- As Time too well hath taught her-- Each year the Fiend returns again, And dives into that water; And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation, And sends them, winged with worse than death, Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns, Even now, beside that river-- Unwearied still the Fiend returns, And stored is still his quiver. "When will this end, ye Powers of Good?" She weeping asks for ever; But only hears, from out that flood, The Demon answer, "Never!"

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

By the Feal's wave benighted, No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whispered o'er me, As the threshold I crost, There was ruin before me, If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 'Twere welcome again. Though misery's full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure, If poured out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her, And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth? Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth?

No--Man for his glory To ancestry flies; But Woman's bright story Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces Thro' mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Banks next to Divine!

[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."--Leland, vol. ii.

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee; Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No--beaming with light as those young features are, There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear: As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair, Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1] Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round; The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, Like man, unquiet even when dead! These, ay, these shall wean My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes, that keep this breast Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmoved by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone.

[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, And played around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned, Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; And, when to gaze again I turned, The minstrel's form seemed fading too. As if her light and heaven's were one, The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone, As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought That he and all he loved must part? Filled with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart-- And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom? "Oh light of youth's resplendent day! "Must ye then lose your golden bloom, "And thus, like sunshine, die away?"

SING--SING--MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

Sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, But Love from the lips his true archery wings; And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. Then sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother, Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him, "Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him." Dreaming of music he slumbered the while Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke, And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile, While Love to his own sweet singing awoke. Then sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee, Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command: Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee, And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling Of him thou regardest her favoring ray, Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves; Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved, The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine; And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

SING, SWEET HARP.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory, Long buried dreams shall raise;-- Some lay that tells of vanished fame, Whose light once round us shone; Of noble pride, now turned to shame, And hopes for ever gone.-- Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; Alike our doom is cast, Both lost to all but memory, We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh, As if it sought some echo there Of voices long gone by;-- Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed The foremost then in fame; Of Bards who, once immortal deemed, Now sleep without a name.-- In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh; In vain it seeks an echo there Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round. Who once, in bower and hall, Sat listening to thy magic sound, Now mute and mouldering all;-- But, no; they would but wake to weep Their children's slavery; Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, The dead, at least, are free!-- Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone, That knell of Freedom's day; Or, listening to its death-like moan, Let me, too, die away.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.

To-morrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low! The morning star is up,-- But there's wine still in the cup, And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go; We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes A passing tear will rise, When we think of the friends we leave lone; But what can wailing do? See, our goblet's weeping too! With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own; With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;-- The last that o'er us shone Saw our children around us play; The next--ah! where shall we And those rosy urchins be? But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away; No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane, Ignobly by their firesides stay; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven, Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra! Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

THE WANDERING BARD.

What life like that of the bard can be-- The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o'er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where'er he comes or goes,-- A fount that for ever flows! The world's to him like some playground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round;-- If dimmed the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod; So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, Without a bard to fix her bloom? They tell us, in the moon's bright round, Things lost in this dark world are found; So charms, on earth long past and gone, In the poet's lay live on.-- Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? You've only to give them all to him. Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand, Can lend them life, this life beyond, And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,-- Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,-- For, tho' he hath countless airy homes, To which his wing excursive roves, Yet still, from time to time, he loves To light upon earth and find such cheer As brightens our banquet here. No matter how far, how fleet he flies, You've only to light up kind young eyes, Such signal-fires as here are given,-- And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, The minute such call to love or mirth Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes beloved Shed round us once, where'er we roved-- This, this the doom must be Of all who've loved, and lived to see The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng, Their smiles to others all belong, And want that charm which dwells alone Round those the fond heart calls its own. Where, where the sunny brow? The long-known voice--where are they now? Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, If all her art can not call forth One bliss like those we felt of old From lips now mute, and eyes now cold? No, no,--her spell is vain,-- As soon could she bring back again Those eyes themselves from out the grave, As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,-- Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies, Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour, When stars can be heard in ocean dip, Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: Like him, the boy,[1] who born among The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus,--his only song To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

They came from a land beyond the sea, And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, From the sunny land of Spain. "Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, Our destined home or grave?"[1] Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines A sparkle of radiant green, As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light thro' the wave was seen. "'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!" Rings o'er the echoing sea; While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave, Where now their Day-God's eye A look of such sunny-omen gave As lighted up sea and sky. Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea, Nor tear o'er leaf or sod, When first on their Isle of Destiny Our great forefathers trod.

[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.--Keating.

[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye, Obey the mute call and heave into motion. Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest! Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred, And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears, And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,-- While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us? Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding-- Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay, Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, And lamps from every casement shown; While voices blithe within are singing, That seem to say "Come," in every tone. Ah! once how light, in Life's young season, My heart had leapt at that sweet lay; Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter, The syren lips more fondly sound; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter To sink in your rosy bondage bound. Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny's rude control, Thus quail at sight of woman's charms And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,-- Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1] Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.

OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy shore, I wandered young and free. Full many a path I've tried, since then, Thro' pleasure's flowery maze, But ne'er could find the bliss again I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs, At sunny morn I've stood, With heart as bounding as the skiffs That danced along thy flood; Or, when the western wave grew bright With daylight's parting wing, Have sought that Eden in its light, Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--

That Eden where the immortal brave Dwell in a land serene,-- Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, At sunset, oft are seen. Ah dream too full of saddening truth! Those mansions o'er the main Are like the hopes I built in youth,-- As sunny and as vain!

[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories",--Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland."

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still turned to a flying foe. Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death, Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,-- That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath, And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;-- Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,-- "It hath victory's life in it yet!"

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed, Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,-- Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it! So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenever they wish to use it; So, in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, And the flash of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted:-- Unless they're like that graceful one, Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun. Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1] And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining, Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall, Where his sword hangs idly shining. When, hark! that shout From the vale without,-- "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!" Every Chief starts up From his foaming cup, And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, And they sing such thrilling numbers, 'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old, Breaking forth from the place of slumbers! Spear to buckler rang, As the minstrels sang, And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide; While remembering the yoke Which their father's broke, "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, O'er the valley of Almhin lowering; While onward moved, in the light of its fame, That banner of Erin, towering. With the mingling shock Rung cliff and rock, While, rank on rank, the invaders die: And the shout, that last, O'er the dying past, Was "victory! victory!"--the Finian's cry.

[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore; And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread! Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

From this hour the pledge is given, From this hour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth or heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. When the proud and great stood by thee, None dared thy rights to spurn; And if now they're false and fly thee, Shall I, too, basely turn? No;--whate'er the fires that try thee, In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest, Offers now no friendly shore, Light may come where all looks darkest, Hope hath life when life seems o'er. And, of those past ages dreaming, When glory decked thy brow, Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming So fallen and clouded now, Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,-- None so bright, so blest as thou!

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

Silence is in our festal halls,-- Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er; In vain on thee sad Erin calls, Her minstrel's voice responds no more;-- All silent as the Eolian shell Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze that waked its swell At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long Awakened by music's spell shall rise; For, name so linked with deathless song Partakes its charm and never dies: And even within the holy fane When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him whose earliest strain Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day. The social night when by thy side He who now weaves this parting lay His skilless voice with thine allied; And sung those songs whose every tone, When bard and minstrel long have past, Shall still in sweetness all their own Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,-- Or, if thy bard have shared the crown, From thee the borrowed glory came, And at thy feet is now laid down. Enough, if Freedom still inspire His latest song and still there be. As evening closes round his lyre, One ray upon its chords from thee.

[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

NATIONAL AIRS

ADVERTISEMENT.

It is Cicero, I believe, who says "naturâ, ad modes ducimur;" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none,--or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers,--it is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.

T.M.

NATIONAL AIRS

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)

"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted, "I'll build in this garden,--the thought is divine!" Her temple was built and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining "An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;-- "But yon little god, upon roses reclining, "We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him." So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden "Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Flow on, thou shining river; But ere thou reach the sea Seek Ella's bower and give her The wreaths I fling o'er thee And tell her thus, if she'll be mine The current of our lives shall be, With joys along their course to shine, Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if in wandering thither Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, Then leave those wreaths to wither Upon the cold bank there; And tell her thus, when youth is o'er, Her lone and loveless Charms shall be Thrown by upon life's weedy shore. Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

(INDIAN AIR.)

All that's bright must fade,-- The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest. Stars that shine and fall;-- The flower that drops in springing;-- These, alas! are types of all To which our hearts are clinging. All that's bright must fade,-- The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than to be blest with light and see That light for ever flying. All that's bright must fade,-- The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest!

SO WARMLY WE MET.

(HUNGARIAN AIR.)

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,-- That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted, Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell. To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,-- Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss; Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other In smiles and in tears than that moment to this.

The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,-- The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet; The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious, More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set. Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrow To think that such happiness could not remain; While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrow Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(AIR.--THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth and home and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away: And many a heart, that then was gay. Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone: That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee, Which now so sweetly thy heart employ: Should the cold world come to wake thee From all thy visions of youth and joy; Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish Him who once thought thy young heart his own, All, like spring birds, falsely vanish, And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;--

Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er; Then the truant, lost and blighted, Would to his bosom be taken once more. Like that dear bird we both can remember, Who left us while summer shone round, But, when chilled by bleak December, On our threshold a welcome still found.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say, Went on a party of pleasure one day: Folly played Around the maid, The bells of his cap rung merrily out; While Reason took To his sermon-book-- Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage. Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page, Till Folly said, "Look here, sweet maid!"-- The sight of his cap brought her back to herself; While Reason read His leaves of lead, With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! No,--no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap; Had he that on, he her heart might entrap-- "There it is," Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" (Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) "Under the sun There's no such fun, As Reason with my cap and bells on his head!" "Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, That Beauty now liked him still less than before; While Folly took Old Reason's book, And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton, That Beauty vowed (Tho' not aloud), She liked him still better in that than his own, Yes,--liked him still better in that than his own.

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Fare thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er. Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell, Could scarce have thus deceived; But eyes that acted truth so well Were sure to be believed. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er.

Yet those eyes look constant still, True as stars they keep their light; Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil Of blushing always bright. 'Tis only on thy changeful heart The blame of falsehood lies; Love lives in every other part, But there, alas! he dies. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone, Love's sweet life is o'er.

DOST THOU REMEMBER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Dost thou remember that place so lonely, A place for lovers and lovers only, Where first I told thee all my secret sighs? When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er thee Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee, And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes? Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, Love bound us--never, never more to part!

And when I called thee by names the dearest[1] That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,-- "My life, my only life!" among the rest; In those sweet accents that still enthral me, Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me? "Thy soul, thy soul's the name I love best; "For life soon passes,--but how blest to be "That Soul which never, never parts from thee!"

[1] The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words.

OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Oh, come to me when daylight sets; Sweet! then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets O'er the moonlight sea. When Mirth's awake, and Love begins, Beneath that glancing ray, With sound of lutes and mandolins, To steal young hearts away. Then, come to me when daylight sets; Sweet! then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets O'er the moonlight sea.

Oh, then's the hour for those who love, Sweet, like thee and me; When all's so calm below, above, In Heaven and o'er the sea. When maiden's sing sweet barcarolles, And Echo sings again So sweet, that all with ears and souls Should love and listen then. So, come to me when daylight sets; Sweet! then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets O'er the moonlight sea.

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one, Who treads alone, Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING.

(RUSSIAN AIR.)

Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing O'er the waters soft and clear; Nearer yet and nearer pealing, And now bursts upon the ear: Jubilate, Amen. Farther now, now farther stealing Soft it fades upon the ear: Jubilate, Amen.

Now, like moonlight waves retreating To the shore it dies along; Now, like angry surges meeting, Breaks the mingled tide of song Jubilate, Amen. Hush! again, like waves, retreating To the shore, it dies along: Jubilate, Amen.

LOVE AND HOPE.

(SWISS AIR.)

At morn, beside yon summer sea, Young Hope and Love reclined; But scarce had noon-tide come, when he Into his bark leapt smilingly, And left poor Hope behind.

"I go," said Love, "to sail awhile "Across this sunny main;" And then so sweet, his parting smile, That Hope, who never dreamt of guile, Believed he'd come again.

She lingered there till evening's beam Along the waters lay; And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream, Oft traced his name, which still the stream As often washed away.

At length a sail appears in sight, And toward the maiden moves! 'Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright, His golden bark reflects the light, But ah! it is not Love's.

Another sail--'twas Friendship showed Her night-lamp o'er the sea; And calm the light that lamp bestowed; But Love had lights that warmer glowed, And where, alas! was he?

Now fast around the sea and shore Night threw her darkling chain; The sunny sails were seen no more, Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er-- Love never came again!

THERE COMES A TIME.

(GERMAN AIR.)

There comes a time, a dreary time, To him whose heart hath flown O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime, And made each flow its own. 'Tis when his soul must first renounce Those dreams so bright, so fond; Oh! then's the time to die at once. For life has naught beyond.

When sets the sun on Afric's shore, That instant all is night; And so should life at once be o'er. When Love withdraws his light;-- Nor, like our northern day, gleam on Thro' twilight's dim delay, The cold remains of lustre gone, Of fire long past away.

MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

(SWEDISH AIR.)

My harp has one unchanging theme, One strain that still comes o'er Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream Of joy that's now no more. In vain I try, with livelier air, To wake the breathing string; That voice of other times is there, And saddens all I sing.

Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain, Henceforth be all my own; Tho' thou art oft so full of pain Few hearts can bear thy tone. Yet oft thou'rt sweet, as if the sigh, The breath that Pleasure's wings Gave out, when last they wantoned by. Were still upon thy strings.

OH, NO--NOT EVEN WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

(CASHMERIAN AIR.)

Oh, no--not even when first we loved, Wert thou as dear as now thou art; Thy beauty then my senses moved, But now thy virtues bind my heart. What was but Passion's sigh before, Has since been turned to Reason's vow; And, though I then might love thee more, Trust me, I love thee better now.

Altho' my heart in earlier youth Might kindle with more wild desire, Believe me, it has gained in truth Much more than it has lost in fire. The flame now warms my inmost core, That then but sparkled o'er my brow, And, though I seemed to love thee more, Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

(SCOTCH AIR.)

Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st; May life be for thee one summer's day, And all that thou wishest and all that thou lov'st Come smiling around thy sunny way! If sorrow e'er this calm should break, May even thy tears pass off so lightly, Like spring-showers, they'll only make The smiles, that follow shine more brightly.

May Time who sheds his blight o'er all And daily dooms some joy to death O'er thee let years so gently fall, They shall not crush one flower beneath. As half in shade and half in sun This world along its path advances. May that side the sun's upon Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS.

(FRENCH AIR.)

While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel, For the tale I sing Has, for once, a moral. Common Sense, one night, Tho' not used to gambols, Went out by moonlight, With Genius, on his rambles. While I touch the string, etc.

Common Sense went on, Many wise things saying; While the light that shone Soon set Genius straying. One his eye ne'er raised From the path before him; T'other idly gazed On each night-cloud o'er him. While I touch the string, etc.

So they came, at last, To a shady river; Common Sense soon past, Safe, as he doth ever; While the boy, whose look Was in Heaven that minute. Never saw the brook, But tumbled headlong in it! While I touch the string, etc.

How the Wise One smiled, When safe o'er the torrent, At that youth, so wild, Dripping from the current! Sense went home to bed; Genius, left to shiver On the bank, 'tis said, Died of that cold river! While I touch the string, etc.

THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

(OLD ENGLISH AIR.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love, This world has now for us No greater grief, no pain above The pain of parting thus, Dear love! The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met, Some few short hours of bliss, We might, in numbering them, forget The deep, deep pain of this, Dear love! The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen One glimpse of pleasure's ray, But still there came some cloud between, And chased it all away, Dear love! And chased it all away.

Yet, even could those sad moments last, Far dearer to my heart Were hours of grief, together past, Than years of mirth apart, Dear love! Than years of mirth apart.

Farewell! our hope was born in fears, And nurst mid vain regrets: Like winter suns, it rose in tears, Like them in tears it sets, Dear love! Like them in tears it sets.

GAYLY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

(MALTESE AIR.)

Gayly sounds the castanet, Beating time to bounding feet, When, after daylight's golden set, Maids and youths by moonlight meet. Oh, then, how sweet to move Thro' all that maze of mirth, Led by light from eyes we love Beyond all eyes on earth.

Then, the joyous banquet spread On the cool and fragrant ground, With heaven's bright sparklers overhead, And still brighter sparkling round. Oh, then, how sweet to say Into some loved one's ear, Thoughts reserved thro' many a day To be thus whispered here.

When the dance and feast are done, Arm in arm as home we stray, How sweet to see the dawning sun O'er her cheek's warm blushes play! Then, too, the farewell kiss-- The words, whose parting tone Lingers still in dreams of bliss, That haunt young hearts alone.

LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.

(LANGUEDOCIAN AIR.)

Love is a hunter-boy, Who, makes young hearts his prey, And in his nets of joy Ensnares them night and day. In vain concealed they lie-- Love tracks them every where; In vain aloft they fly-- Love shoots them flying there.

But 'tis his joy most sweet, At early dawn to trace The print of Beauty's feet, And give the trembler chase. And if, thro' virgin snow, He tracks her footsteps fair, How sweet for Love to know None went before him there.

COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Come, chase that starting tear away, Ere mine to meet it springs; To-night, at least, to-night be gay, Whate'er to-morrow brings. Like sunset gleams, that linger late When all is darkening fast, Are hours like these we snatch from Fate-- The brightest, and the last. Then, chase that starting tear, etc.

To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven But one bright hour allow, Oh, think that one bright hour is given, In all its splendor, now. Let's live it out--then sink in night, Like waves that from the shore One minute swell, are touched with light, Then lost for evermore! Come, chase that starting tear, etc.

JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids, To whom the night-stars guide us; Stolen walks thro' moonlight shades, With those we love beside us, Hearts beating, At meeting; Tears starting, At parting; Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades! Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!

Wanderings far away from home, With life all new before us; Greetings warm, when home we come, From hearts whose prayers watched o'er us. Tears starting, At parting; Hearts beating, At meeting; Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some! To some, how bright and fleeting!

HEAR ME BUT ONCE.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Hear me but once, while o'er the grave, In which our Love lies cold and dead, I count each flattering hope he gave Of joys now lost and charms now fled.

Who could have thought the smile he wore When first we met would fade away? Or that a chill would e'er come o'er Those eyes so bright thro' many a day? Hear me but once, etc.

WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD

(SWEDISH AIR.)

When Love was a child, and went idling round, 'Mong flowers the whole summer's day, One morn in the valley a bower he found, So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair, A fountain ran darkly beneath;-- 'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flowerets there; Love knew it, and jumped at the wreath.

But Love didn't know--and, at his weak years, What urchin was likely to know?-- That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears The fountain that murmured below.

He caught at the wreath--but with too much haste, As boys when impatient will do-- It fell in those waters of briny taste, And the flowers were all wet through.

This garland he now wears night and day; And, tho' it all sunny appears With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say, Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.

SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Say, what shall be our sport today? There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay For spirits like mine to dare! 'Tis like the returning bloom Of those days, alas, gone by, When I loved, each hour--I scarce knew whom-- And was blest--I scarce knew why.

Ay--those were days when life had wings, And flew, oh, flew so wild a height That, like the lark which sunward springs, 'Twas giddy with too much light. And, tho' of some plumes bereft, With that sun, too, nearly set, I've enough of light and wing still left For a few gay soarings yet.

BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.

(WELSH AIR.)

Bright be thy dreams--may all thy weeping Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping. May those by death or seas removed, The friends, who in thy springtime knew thee, All thou hast ever prized or loved, In dreams come smiling to thee!

There may the child, whose love lay deepest, Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest; Still as she was--no charm forgot-- No lustre lost that life had given; Or, if changed, but changed to what Thou'lt find her yet in Heaven!

GO, THEN--'TIS VAIN.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, then--'tis vain to hover Thus round a hope that's dead; At length my dream is over; 'Twas sweet--'twas false--'tis fled! Farewell! since naught it moves thee, Such truth as mine to see-- Some one, who far less loves thee, Perhaps more blest will be.

Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness New life around me shed; Farewell, false heart, whose lightness Now leaves me death instead. Go, now, those charms surrender To some new lover's sigh-- One who, tho' far less tender, May be more blest than I.

THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.

(SWISS AIR.)

O'er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-Hunters speed along; While rocks and caves, And icy wares, Each instant echo to our song; And, when we meet with store of gems, We grudge not kings their diadems. O'er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-Hunters speed along; While grots and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song.

Not half so oft the lover dreams Of sparkles from his lady's eyes, As we of those refreshing gleams That tell where deep the crystal lies; Tho', next to crystal, we too grant, That ladies' eyes may most enchant. O'er mountains bright, etc.

Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose The golden sunset leaves its ray, So like a gem the floweret glows, We hither bend our headlong way; And, tho' we find no treasure there, We bless the rose that shines so fair. O'er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-Hunters speed along; While rocks and caves, And icy waves, Each instant echo to our song,

ROW GENTLY HERE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Row gently here, My gondolier, So softly wake the tide, That not an ear. On earth, may hear, But hers to whom we glide. Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well As starry eyes to see, Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell Of wandering youths like me!

Now rest thee here. My gondolier; Hush, hush, for up I go, To climb yon light Balcony's height, While thou keep'st watch below. Ah! did we take for Heaven above But half such pains as we Take, day and night, for woman's love, What' Angels we should be.

OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded, Why thus for ever haunt my view? When in the grave your light lay shrouded, Why did not Memory die there too? Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me, Telling of joys that yet remain-- No, never more can this life bring me One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.

Dim lies the way to death before me, Cold winds of Time blow round my brow; Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me, Where is your warmth, your glory now? 'Tis not that then no pain could sting me; 'Tis not that now no joys remain; Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight, Oh what a vision then came o'er me! Long years of love, of calm and pure delight, Seemed in that smile to pass before me. Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies, Of golden fruit and harvests springing, With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes, And of the joy their light was bringing.

Where now are all those fondly-promised hours? Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness-- Fading as fast as rainbows or day-flowers, Or aught that's known for grace and lightness. Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day, Should be each vow of Love's repeating; Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray-- Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!

(CATALONIAN AIR.)

Peace to the slumberers! They lie on the battle-plain. With no shroud to cover them; The dew and the summer rain Are all that weep over them. Peace to the slumberers!

Vain was their bravery!-- The fallen oak lies where it lay, Across the wintry river; But brave hearts, once swept away, Are gone, alas! forever. Vain was their bravery!

Woe to the conqueror! Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs Of whom his sword bereft us. Ere we forget the deep arrears Of vengeance they have left us! Woe to the conqueror!

WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

When thou shalt wander by that sweet light We used to gaze on so many an eve, When love was new and hope was bright, Ere I could doubt or thou deceive-- Oh, then, remembering how swift went by Those hours of transport, even thou may'st sigh.

Yes, proud one! even thy heart may own That love like ours was far too sweet To be, like summer garments thrown Aside, when past the summer's heat; And wish in vain to know again Such days, such nights, as blest thee then.

WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Hymen, late, his love-knots selling, Called at many a maiden's dwelling: None could doubt, who saw or knew them, Hymen's call was welcome to them. "Who'll buy my love-knots? "Who'll buy my love-knots?" Soon as that sweet cry resounded How his baskets were surrounded!

Maids, who now first dreamt of trying These gay knots of Hymen's tying; Dames, who long had sat to watch him Passing by, but ne'er could catch him;-- "Who'll buy my love-knots? "Who'll buy my love-knots?"-- All at that sweet cry assembled; Some laughed, some blushed, and some trembled.

"Here are knots," said Hymen, taking Some loose flowers, "of Love's own making; "Here are gold ones--you may trust 'em"-- (These, of course, found ready custom). "Come, buy my love-knots! "Come, buy my love-knots! "Some are labelled 'Knots to tie men-- "Love the maker--Bought of Hymen.'"

Scarce their bargains were completed, When the nymphs all cried, "We're cheated! "See these flowers--they're drooping sadly; "This gold-knot, too, ties but badly-- "Who'd buy such love-knots? "Who'd buy such love-knots? "Even this tie, with Love's name round it-- "All a sham--He never bound it."

Love, who saw the whole proceeding, Would have laughed, but for good breeding; While Old Hymen, who was used to Cries like that these dames gave loose to-- "Take back our love-knots! "Take back our love-knots!" Coolly said, "There's no returning "Wares on Hymen's hands--Good morning!"

SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

(TO AN AIR SUNG AT ROME, ON CHRISTMAS EVE.)

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking O'er our sight, And Earth from sin awaking, Hails the light! See those groups of angels, winging From the realms above, On their brows, from Eden, bringing Wreaths of Hope and Love.

Hark, their hymns of glory pealing Thro' the air, To mortal ears revealing Who lies there! In that dwelling, dark and lowly, Sleeps the Heavenly Son, He, whose home's above,--the Holy, Ever Holy One!

NETS AND CAGES.[1]

(SWEDISH AIR.)

Come, listen to my story, while Your needle task you ply: At what I sing some maids will smile, While some, perhaps, may sigh. Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames Such florid songs as ours,

Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames, Can speak her thoughts by flowers. Then listen, maids, come listen, while Your needle's task you ply; At what I sing there's some may smile, While some, perhaps, will sigh.

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves, Such nets had learned to frame, That none, in all our vales and groves, E'er caught so much small game: But gentle Sue, less given to roam, While Cloe's nets were taking Such lots of Loves, sat still at home, One little Love-cage making. Come, listen, maids, etc.

Much Cloe laughed at Susan's task; But mark how things went on: These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask Their name and age, were gone! So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove, That, tho' she charm'd into them New game each hour, the youngest Love Was able to break thro' them. Come, listen, maids, etc.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought Of bars too strong to sever, One Love with golden pinions caught. And caged him there for ever; Instructing, thereby, all coquettes, Whate'er their looks or ages, That, tho 'tis pleasant weaving Nets, 'Tis wiser to make Cages.

Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile The task your fingers ply.-- May all who hear like Susan smile, And not, like Cloe, sigh!

[1] Suggested by the following remark of Swift's;--"The reason why so few marriages are happy, is, because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages."

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

When thro' the Piazzetta Night breathes her cool air, Then, dearest Ninetta, I'll come to thee there. Beneath thy mask shrouded, I'll know thee afar, As Love knows tho' clouded His own Evening Star.

In garb, then, resembling Some gay gondolier, I'll whisper thee, trembling, "Our bark, love, is near: "Now, now, while there hover "Those clouds o'er the moon, "'Twill waft thee safe over "Yon silent Lagoon."

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber-- Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number. Of Pain's bitter draught the flavor ne'er flies, While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies. Go, then, and dream, etc.

That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid, Often will shine again, bright as she then did-- But, never more will the beam she saw burn In those happy eyes, at your meeting, return. Go, then, and dream, etc.

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

Take hence the bowl;--tho' beaming Brightly as bowl e'er shone, Oh, it but sets me dreaming Of happy days now gone. There, in its clear reflection, As in a wizard's glass, Lost hopes and dead affection, Like shades, before me pass.

Each cup I drain brings hither Some scene of bliss gone by;-- Bright lips too bright to wither, Warm hearts too warm to die. Till, as the dream comes o'er me Of those long vanished years, Alas, the wine before me Seems turning all to tears!

FAREWELL, THERESA!

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over Heaven's pale night-star gathering we see, Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.

Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee, Darkening thy prospects, saddening thy brow; With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee; Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!

But here I free thee: like one awaking From fearful slumber, thou break'st the spell; 'Tis over--the moon, too, her bondage is breaking-- Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!

HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

(SAVOYARD AIR.)

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale, And round me sleeps the moonlight scene, To hear a flute through yonder vale I from my casement lean. "Come, come, my love!" each note then seems to say, "Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!" Never to mortal ear Could words, tho' warm they be, Speak Passion's language half so clear As do those notes to me!

Then quick my own light lute I seek, And strike the chords with loudest swell; And, tho' they naught to others speak, He knows their language well. "I come, my love!" each note then seems to say, "I come, my love!--thine, thine till break of day." Oh, weak the power of words, The hues of painting dim Compared to what those simple chords Then say and paint to him!

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

(GERMAN AIR.)

When the first summer bee O'er the young rose shall hover, Then, like that gay rover, I'll come to thee. He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim-- What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him! When the first summer bee, etc.

Then, to every bright tree In the garden he'll wander; While I, oh, much fonder, Will stay with thee. In search of new sweetness thro' thousands he'll run, While I find the sweetness of thousands in one. Then, to every bright tree, etc.

THO' 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

(FRENCH AIR.)

Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best, And still, when happiest, soonest o'er, Yet, even in a dream, to be blest Is so sweet, that I ask for no more. The bosom that opes With earliest hopes, The soonest finds those hopes untrue: As flowers that first In spring-time burst The earliest wither too! Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc.

Tho' by friendship we oft are deceived, And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast, Yet friendship will still be believed. And love trusted on to the last. The web 'mong the leaves The spider weaves Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men; Tho' often she sees 'Tis broke by the breeze, She spins the bright tissue again. Ay--'tis all but a dream, etc.

WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

When the wine-cup is smiling before us, And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true, Then the sky of this life opens o'er us, And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue. Talk of Adam in Eden reclining, We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus; For him but two bright eyes were shining-- See, what numbers are sparkling for us!

When on one side the grape-juice is dancing, While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams, 'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing, To disturb even a saint from his dreams. Yet, tho' life like a river is flowing, I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on, So the grape on its bank is still growing, And Love lights the waves as they run.

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

(NEAPOLITAN AIR.)

Where shall we bury our shame? Where, in what desolate place, Hide the last wreck of a name Broken and stained by disgrace? Death may dissever the chain, Oppression will cease when we're gone; But the dishonor, the stain, Die as we may, will live on.

Was it for this we sent out Liberty's cry from our shore? Was it for this that her shout Thrilled to the world's very core? Thus to live cowards and slaves!-- Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead, Do you not, even in your graves, Shudder, as o'er you we tread?

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.

(MAHRATTA AIR.)

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools; Give me the sage who's able To draw his moral thoughts and rules From the study of the table;-- Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass This world and all that's in it. From the bumper that but crowns his glass, And is gone again next minute!

The diamond sleeps within the mine, The pearl beneath the water; While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine. The grape's own rosy daughter. And none can prize her charms like him, Oh, none like him obtain her, Who thus can, like Leander, swim Thro' sparkling floods to gain her!

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.

(HIGHLAND AIR.)

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell; Whether its music rolled like torrents near. Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear. Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;-- That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay; That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!

DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

Do not say that life is waning, Or that hope's sweet day is set; While I've thee and love remaining, Life is in the horizon yet.

Do not think those charms are flying, Tho' thy roses fade and fall; Beauty hath a grace undying, Which in thee survives them all.

Not for charms, the newest, brightest, That on other cheeks may shine, Would I change the least, the slightest. That is lingering now o'er thine.

THE GAZELLE.

Dost thou not hear the silver bell, Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing? 'Tis my lady's light gazelle; To me her love thoughts bringing,-- All the while that silver bell Around his dark neck ringing.

See, in his mouth he bears a wreath, My love hath kist in tying; Oh, what tender thoughts beneath Those silent flowers are lying,-- Hid within the mystic wreath, My love hath kist in trying!

Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee, And joy to her, the fairest. Who thus hath breathed her soul to me. In every leaf thou bearest; Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee, And joy to her the fairest!

Hail ye living, speaking flowers, That breathe of her who bound ye; Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers; 'Twas on her lips, she found ye;-- Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers, 'Twas on her lips she found ye.

NO--LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.

No--leave my heart to rest, if rest it may, When youth, and love, and hope, have past away. Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled, To some poor leaf that's fallen and dead, Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed? No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may, When youth, and love, and hope, have past away.

Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright, Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light; But now thou comest like sunny skies, Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes, When wrecked and lost his bark before him lies! No--leave this heart to rest, if rest it may, Since youth, and love, and hope have past away.

WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.

"Where are the visions that round me once hovered, "Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone; "Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered, "And voices that Music might take for her own?" Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o'er me, Heard me say, "Where are those visions, oh where?" And pointing his wand to the sunset before me, Said, with a voice like the hollow wind, "There."

Fondly I looked, when the wizard had spoken, And there, mid the dim-shining ruins of day, Saw, by their light, like a talisman broken, The last golden fragments of hope melt away.

WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy, And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs; Hunting is the hero's joy, Till war his nobler game supplies. Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet, While hunters shout and the, woods repeat, Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

Wind again thy cheerful horn, Till echo, faint with answering, dies: Burn, bright torches, burn till morn, And lead us where the wild boar lies. Hark! the cry, "He's found, he's found," While hill and valley our shouts resound. Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.

Oh, guard our affection, nor e'er let it feel The blight that this world o'er the warmest will steal: While the faith of all round us is fading or past, Let ours, ever green, keep its bloom to the last.

Far safer for Love 'tis to wake and to weep, As he used in his prime, than go smiling to sleep; For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast, White the love that is wakeful lives on to the last.

And tho', as Time gathers his clouds o'er our head, A shade somewhat darker o'er life they may spread, Transparent, at least, be the shadow they cast, So that Love's softened light may shine thro' to the last.

SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.

"Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st "My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st." Thus sung I to a maiden, Who slept one summer's day, And, like a flower overladen With too much sunshine, lay. Slumber, oh slumber, etc.

"Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks; "If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks." Thus sing I, while, awaking, She murmurs words that seem As if her lips were taking Farewell of some sweet dream. Breathe not, oh breathe not, etc.

BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.

Bring the bright garlands hither, Ere yet a leaf is dying; If so soon they must wither. Ours be their last sweet sighing. Hark, that low dismal chime! 'Tis the dreary voice of Time. Oh, bring beauty, bring roses, Bring all that yet is ours; Let life's day, as it closes, Shine to the last thro' flowers.

Haste, ere the bowl's declining, Drink of it now or never; Now, while Beauty is shining, Love, or she's lost for ever. Hark! again that dull chime, 'Tis the dreary voice of Time. Oh, if life be a torrent, Down to oblivion going, Like this cup be its current, Bright to the last drop flowing!

IF IN LOVING, SINGING.

If in loving, singing, night and day We could trifle merrily life away, Like atoms dancing in the beam, Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream, Or summer blossoms, born to sigh Their sweetness out, and die-- How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side, Thou and I could make our minutes glide! No atoms ever glanced so bright, No day-flies ever danced so light, Nor summer blossoms mixt their sigh, So close, as thou and I!

THOU LOVEST NO MORE.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er; Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken, Thou lovest no more--thou lovest no more.

Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me, The smile is gone, which once they wore; Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me, 'Tis not the same--thou lovest no more.

Too long my dream of bliss believing, I've thought thee all thou wert before; But now--alas! there's no deceiving, 'Tis all too plain, thou lovest no more.

Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken, As lost affection's life restore, Give peace to her that is forsaken, Or bring back him who loves no more.

WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

When abroad in the world thou appearest. And the young and the lovely are there, To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest. To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair. They pass, one by one, Like waves of the sea, That say to the Sun, "See, how fair we can be." But where's the light like thine, In sun or shade to shine? No--no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee, Nothing like thee.

Oft, of old, without farewell or warning, Beauty's self used to steal from the skies; Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning, And post down to earth in disguise; But, no matter what shroud Around her might be, Men peeped through the cloud, And whispered, "'Tis She." So thou, where thousands are, Shinest forth the only star,-- Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee, Nothing like thee.

KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

Keep those eyes still purely mine, Tho' far off I be: When on others most they shine, Then think they're turned on me.

Should those lips as now respond To sweet minstrelsy, When their accents seem most fond, Then think they're breathed for me.

Make what hearts thou wilt thy own, If when all on thee Fix their charmed thoughts alone, Thou think'st the while on me.

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger, Once more she sings me her flattering strain; But hush, gentle syren--for, ah, there's less danger In still suffering on, than in hoping again.

Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining, Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain: And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining O'er eyelids long darkened, would bring me but pain.

Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me; Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me. But, ah--in forgetting how once I was blest.

O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

O say, thou best and brightest, My first love and my last. When he, whom now thou slightest, From life's dark scene hath past, Will kinder thoughts then move thee? Will pity wake one thrill For him who lived to love thee, And dying loved thee still?

If when, that hour recalling From which he dates his woes, Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling, Ah, blush not while it flows; But, all the past forgiving, Bend gently o'er his shrine, And say, "This heart, when living, "With all its faults, was mine."

WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

When night brings the hour Of starlight and joy, There comes to my bower A fairy-winged boy; With eyes so bright, So full of wild arts, Like nets of light, To tangle young hearts; With lips, in whose keeping Love's secret may dwell, Like Zephyr asleep in Some rosy sea-shell. Guess who he is, Name but his name, And his best kiss For reward you may claim.

Where'er o'er the ground He prints his light feet. The flowers there are found Most shining and sweet: His looks, as soft As lightning in May, Tho' dangerous oft, Ne'er wound but in play: And oh, when his wings Have brushed o'er my lyre, You'd fancy its strings Were turning to fire. Guess who he is, Name but his name, And his best kiss For reward you may claim.

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOMED.

Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas His weary path to measure, When home at length, with favoring breeze, He brings the far-sought treasure;

His ship, in sight of shore, goes down, That shore to which he hasted; And all the wealth he thought his own Is o'er the waters wasted!

Like him, this heart, thro' many a track Of toil and sorrow straying, One hope alone brought fondly back, Its toil and grief repaying.

Like him, alas, I see that ray Of hope before me perish, And one dark minute sweep away What years were given to cherish.

FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

Fear not that, while around thee Life's varied blessings pour, One sigh of hers shall wound thee, Whose smile thou seek'st no more. No, dead and cold for ever Let our past love remain; Once gone, its spirit never Shall haunt thy rest again.

May the new ties that bind thee Far sweeter, happier prove, Nor e'er of me remind thee, But by their truth and love. Think how, asleep or waking, Thy image haunts me yet; But, how this heart is breaking For thy own peace forget.

WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

When Love is kind, Cheerful and free, Love's sure to find Welcome from me.

But when Love brings Heartache or pang, Tears, and such things-- Love may go hang!

If Love can sigh For one alone, Well pleased am I To be that one,

But should I see Love given to rove To two or three, Then--good by Love!

Love must, in short, Keep fond and true, Thro' good report, And evil too.

Else, here I swear, Young Love may go. For aught I care-- To Jericho.

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours; Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays, But bears some remembrance of those happy days.

The roses were gathered by that garden gate, Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late; Where lingering full oft thro' a summer-night's moon, Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.

The rest were all culled from the banks of that glade, Where, watching the sunset, so often we've strayed, And mourned, as the time went, that Love had no power To bind in his chain even one happy hour.

HOW SHALL I WOO?

If I speak to thee in friendship's name, Thou think'st I speak too coldly; If I mention Love's devoted flame, Thou say'st I speak too boldly. Between these two unequal fires, Why doom me thus to hover? I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires, If more thou seek'st, a lover. Which shall it be? How shall I woo? Fair one, choose between the two.

Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play, When first he comes to woo thee, There's a chance that he may fly away, As fast as he flies to thee. While Friendship, tho' on foot she come, No flights of fancy trying, Will, therefore, oft be found at home, When Love abroad is flying. Which shall it be? How shall I woo? Dear one, choose between the two.

If neither feeling suits thy heart Let's see, to please thee, whether We may not learn some precious art To mix their charms together; One feeling, still more sweet, to form From two so sweet already-- A friendship that like love is warm, A love like friendship steady. Thus let it be, thus let me woo, Dearest, thus we'll join the two.

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's soberer time. So Life's year begins and closes; Days tho' shortening still can shine; What tho' youth gave love and roses, Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me, All the Spring looked coy and shy, Yet herself in Autumn sought me, When the flowers were all gone by. Ah, too late;--she found her lover Calm and free beneath his vine, Drinking to the Spring-time over, In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying, To their flight our pleasures suit, Nor regret the blossoms dying, While we still may taste the fruit, Oh, while days like this are ours, Where's the lip that dares repine? Spring may take our loves and flowers, So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

LOVE ALONE.

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes, First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies: Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne, Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth, Were there no sun to call her brightness forth? Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown, Wait but that light which comes from Love alone.

Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear, Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year: Wouldst thou they still should shine as first they shone, Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone.

SACRED SONGS

TO

EDWARD TUITE DALTON, ESQ.

THE FIRST NUMBER

OF

SACRED SONGS

IS INSCRIBED,

BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND,

THOMAS MOORE.

Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, May, 1816

SACRED SONGS

THOU ART, O GOD.

(Air.--Unknown.)[1]

"The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun.

"Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter." --Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17.

Thou art, O God, the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine!

When Day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of Even, And we can almost think we gaze Thro' golden vistas into Heaven-- Those hues, that make the Sun's decline So soft, so radiant, LORD! are Thine.

When Night, with wings of starry gloom, O'ershadows all the earth and skies, Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes-- That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, LORD! are Thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes, Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh; And every flower the Summer wreaths Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are Thine.

[1] I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, "I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair."

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.)

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,[1] When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam. But high she shoots thro' air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, GOD, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, thro' Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to Thee! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My Soul, as home she springs;--

Thy Sunshine on her joyful way, Thy Freedom in her wings!

[1] The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

(AIR.--MARTINI.)

Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel! Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate, Thy children weep in chains. Where are the dews that fed thee On Etham's barren shore? That fire from Heaven which led thee, Now lights thy path no more.

LORD! thou didst love Jerusalem-- Once she was all thy own; Her love thy fairest heritage,[1] Her power thy glory's throne.[2] Till evil came, and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree;[3]-- And Salem's shrines were lighted For other gods than Thee.

Then sunk the star of Solyma-- Then past her glory's day, Like heath that, in the wilderness,[4] The wild wind whirls away. Silent and waste her bowers, Where once the mighty trod, And sunk those guilty towers, While Baal reign'd as God.

"Go"--said the LORD--"Ye Conquerors! "Steep in her blood your swords, "And raze to earth her battlements,[5] "For they are not the LORD'S. "Till Zion's mournful daughter "O'er kindred bones shall tread, "And Hinnom's vale of slaughter[6] "Shall hide but half her dead!"

[1] "I have left mine heritage; I have given the clearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies."--Jeremiah, xii. 7.

[2] "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."--Jer. xiv. 21.

[3] "The LORD called by name a green olive-tree; fair, and of goodly fruit," etc.--Jer. xi. 16.

[4] "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."--Jer. xvii, 6.

[5] "Take away her battlements; for they are not the LORD'S."--Jer. v. 10.

[6] "Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the LORD, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley or Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place."-- Jer. vii. 32.

WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks, Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks? Is hers an eye of this world's light? No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love; Or if at times a light be there, Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect, From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly decked, As if themselves were things divine. No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast That beats beneath a broidered veil; And she who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-- There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on glory's plume, As fading hues of even; And love and hope, and beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gathered for the tomb-- There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way-- There's nothing calm but Heaven!

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

"He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds," --Psalm. cxlvii. 3.

Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee. The friends who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And even the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimmed and vanished too, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not thy Wing of Love Come, brightly wafting thro' the gloom Our Peace-branch from above? Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; As darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

(AIR.--AVISON.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies. Death chilled the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stained it; 'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course, And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchained it, To water that Eden where first was its source. Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes, Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,[1] Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now, Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale, And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow. Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown-- And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying, Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own. Weep not for her--in her springtime she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurled; And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew, Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.

[1] This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 81, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, "There's nothing bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; My censer's breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves, When murmuring homeward to their caves, Or when the stillness of the sea, Even more than music dreams of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, All light and silence, like thy Throne; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, Shall be my pure and shining book, Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the day-beam's track; Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking thro'.

There's nothing bright, above, below, From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see Some feature of thy Deity:

There's nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace thy Love, And meekly wait that moment, when Thy touch shall turn all bright again!

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

(AlR.--AVISON.)[1]

"And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her band; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances." --Exod. xv. 20.

Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free. Sing--for the pride of the Tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave-- How vain was their boast, for the LORD hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea; JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free.

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the LORD! His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword-- Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the LORD hath looked out from his pillar of glory,[2] And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea, JEHOVAH has triumphed--his people are free!

[1] I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognized.

[2] "And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch the LORD looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians."--Exod. xiv. 24.

GO, LET ME WEEP.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears, When he who sheds them inly feels Some lingering stain of early years Effaced by every drop that steals. The fruitless showers of worldly woe Fall dark to earth and never rise; While tears that from repentance flow, In bright exhalement reach the skies. Go, let me weep.

Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew More idly than the summer's wind, And, while they past, a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind.-- The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves Is cold, is faint to those that swell The heart where pure repentance grieves O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well. Leave me to sigh.

COME NOT, OH LORD.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire; Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender, Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire!

LORD, thou rememberest the night, when thy Nation[1] Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream; O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation, While Israel basked all the night in its beam.

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee, From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove; While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee, Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love!

[1] "And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these"--Exod. xiv. 20.

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Were not the sinful Mary's tears An offering worthy Heaven, When, o'er the faults of former years, She wept--and was forgiven?

When, bringing every balmy sweet Her day of luxury stored, She o'er her Saviour's hallowed feet The precious odors poured;-- And wiped them with that golden hair, Where once the diamond shone; Tho' now those gems of grief were there Which shine for GOD alone!

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed-- That hair--those weeping eyes-- And the sunk heart, that inly bled-- Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou that hast slept in error's sleep, Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven, Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, "Love much" and be forgiven![1]

[1] "Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."--St. Luke, vii.47.

AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean, Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee, My God! silent to Thee-- Pure, warm, silent, to Thee,

As still to the star of its worship, tho' clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee, My GOD! trembling to Thee-- True, fond, trembling, to Thee.

BUT WHO SHALL SEE.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

But who shall see the glorious day When, throned on Zion's brow, The LORD shall rend that veil away Which hides the nations now?[1] When earth no more beneath the fear Of this rebuke shall lie;[2] When pain shall cease, and every tear Be wiped from every eye.[3]

Then, Judah, thou no more shall mourn Beneath the heathen's chain; Thy days of splendor shall return, And all be new again.[4]

The Fount of Life shall then be quaft In peace, by all who come;[5] And every wind that blows shall waft Some long-lost exile home.

[1] "And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations."--Isaiah, xxv. 7.

[2] "The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth."--Isaiah, xxv. 8.

[3] "And GOD shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither shall there be any more pain."--Rev. xxi:4.

[4] "And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new."--Rev. xxi. 5.

[5] "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."--Rev. xxii. 17.

ALMIGHTY GOD!

CHORUS OF PRIESTS.

(AIR.--MOZART.)

Almighty GOD! when round thy shrine The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,[1] (Emblem of Life's eternal ray, And Love that "fadeth not away,") We bless the flowers, expanded all,[2] We bless the leaves that never fall,

And trembling say,--"In Eden thus "The Tree of Life may flower for us!" When round thy Cherubs--smiling calm, Without their flames--we wreathe the Palm. Oh God! we feel the emblem true-- Thy Mercy is eternal too, Those Cherubs, with their smiling eyes, That crown of Palm which never dies, Are but the types of Thee above-- Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love!

[1] "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and Immortality which were brought to light by the Gospel."--"Observations on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem," by W. Tighe.

[2] "And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubim, and palm-trees, and open flowers."--1 Kings, VI. 29.

OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.

(AIR.--MOORE)

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove That flies alone to some sunny grove, And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, All vestal white, in the limpid spring. There, if the hovering hawk be near, That limpid spring in its mirror clear Reflects him ere he reach his prey And warns the timorous bird away, Be thou this dove; Fairest, purest, be thou this dove,

The sacred pages of God's own book Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, In whose holy mirror, night and day, Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;-- And should the foes of virtue dare, With gloomy wing, to seek thee there, Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly! Be thou that dove; Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

(AIR.--HANDEL)

Angel of Charity, who, from above, Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, And Pity's soul is in thy tear. When on the shrine of God were laid First-fruits of all most good and fair, That ever bloomed in Eden's shade, Thine was the holiest offering there.

Hope and her sister, Faith, were given But as our guides to yonder sky; Soon as they reach the verge of heaven, There, lost in perfect bliss, they die. But, long as Love, Almighty Love, Shall on his throne of thrones abide, Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above, Smiling for ever by His side!

BEHOLD THE SUN.

(AIR.--LORD MORNINGTON.)

Behold the Sun, how bright From yonder East he springs, As if the soul of life and light Were breathing from his wings.

So bright the Gospel broke Upon the souls of men; So fresh the dreaming world awoke In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose, Stars clustered thro' the sky-- But oh how dim, how pale were those, To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray, To bless the Pagan's night-- But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they To Thy One glorious Light!

LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

(AIR.--DR. BOYCE.)

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid, When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er This sinful world with hand to heaven extended, And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?[1] When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray-- Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded-- "Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!" And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded, The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head;[2] While Earth and Heaven before Him pass away[3]-- Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

When, with a glance, the Eternal Judge shall sever Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright, And say to those, "Depart from me for ever!" To these, "Come, dwell with me in endless light!"[4] When each and all in silence take their way-- Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?

[1] And the angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven, and swear by Him that liveth for ever and ever...that there should be time no longer."--Rev. x. 5, 6.

[2] "They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven--and all the angels with him."--Matt. xxiv. 90, and xxv. 80.

[3] "From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away."--Rev. xx. ii.

[4] "And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate them one from another.

"Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you, etc.

"Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, etc.

"And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal."

--Matt xxv. 32, et seq.

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art, Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart Shall all other passions disown; Like some pure temple that shines apart, Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame, Thus still let me, living and dying the same, In Thy service bloom and decay-- Like some lone altar whose votive flame In holiness wasteth away.

Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth, On Thee let my spirit rely-- Like some rude dial, that, fixt on earth, Still looks for its light from the sky.

WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Weep, weep for him, the Man of God--[1] In yonder vale he sunk to rest; But none of earth can point the sod[2] That flowers above his sacred breast. Weep, children of Israel, weep!

His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain.[3] His words refreshed like Heaven's dew-- Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again A Chief, to GOD and her so true. Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Remember ye his parting gaze, His farewell song by Jordan's tide, When, full of glory and of days, He saw the promised land--and died.[4] Weep, children of Israel, weep!

Yet died he not as men who sink, Before our eyes, to soulless clay; But, changed to spirit, like a wink Of summer lightning, past away.[5] Weep, children of Israel, weep!

[1] "And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab."-- Deut. xxxiv, 8.

[2] "And, he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab...but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."--Ibid. ver. 6.

[3] "My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew."--Moses' Song.

[4] "I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither."--Deut. xxxiv. 4.

[5] "As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should venture to say that, because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to GOD."--Josephus, book iv. chap. viii.

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

Like morning, when her early breeze Breaks up the surface of the seas, That, in those furrows, dark with night, Her hand may sow the seeds of light--

Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er The Spirit, dark and lost before, And, freshening all its depths, prepare For Truth divine to enter there.

Till David touched his sacred lyre. In silence lay the unbreathing wire; But when he swept its chords along, Even Angels stooped to hear that song.

So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh LORD, Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord-- Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise In music, worthy of the skies!

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

(AIR.--GERMAN.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish-- Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.

Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, in GOD'S name saying-- "Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."

Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us What charm for aching hearts he can reveal, Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us-- "Earth has no sorrow that GOD cannot heal."

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1] The nations, that before outshone thee, Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb-- The glory of the Lord is on thee!

Arise--the Gentiles to thy ray, From every nook of earth shall cluster; And kings and princes haste to pay Their homage to thy rising lustre.[2]

Lift up thine eyes around, and see O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters, Thy exiled sons return to thee, To thee return thy home-sick daughters.[3]

And camels rich, from Midians' tents, Shall lay their treasures down before thee; And Saba bring her gold and scents, To fill thy air and sparkle o'er thee.[4]

See, who are these that, like a cloud,[5] Are gathering from all earth's dominions, Like doves, long absent, when allowed Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.

Surely the isles shall wait for me,[6] The ships of Tarshish round will hover, To bring thy sons across the sea, And waft their gold and silver over.

And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace[7]-- The fir, the pine, the palm victorious Shall beautify our Holy Place, And make the ground I tread on glorious.

No more shall dischord haunt thy ways,[8] Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation; But thou shalt call thy portal Praise, And thou shalt name thy walls Salvation.

The sun no more shall make thee bright,[9] Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee; But God, Himself, shall be thy Light, And flash eternal glory thro' thee.

Thy sun shall never more go down; A ray from heaven itself descended Shall light thy everlasting crown-- Thy days of mourning all are ended.[10]

My own, elect, and righteous Land! The Branch, for ever green and vernal, Which I have planted with this hand-- Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.[11]

[1] "Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee."--Isaiah, xl.

[2] "And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising."--Isaiah, xl.

[3] "Lift up thine eyes round about, and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side."--Isaiah, lx.

[4] "The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense."--Ib.

[5] "Who are these that fly as a cloud and as the doves to their windows?"--Ib.

[6] "Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them."--Ib.

[7] "The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary; and I will make the place of my feet glorious."--Ib.

[8] "Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.--Isaiah, lx.

[9] "Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."--Ib.

[10] "Thy sun shall no more go down...for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended."--Ib.

[11] "Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands."--Ib.

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

(AIR.--CRESCENTINI.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary-- What may that Desert be? 'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes The water he pants for but sparkles and flies-- Who may that Pilgrim be? 'Tis Man, hapless Man, thro' this life tempted on By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

There is a bright Fountain, thro' that Desert stealing To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing-- What may that Fountain be? 'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.

There is a fair Spirit whose wand hath the spell To point where those waters in secrecy dwell-- Who may that Spirit be? 'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that where'er Her wand bends to worship the Truth must be there!

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

(AIR.--NICHOLAS FREEMAN.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, All light and love before me. Naught else I feel, or hear or see-- All bonds of earth I sever-- Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

Like him whose fetters dropt away When light shone o'er his prison,[1] My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray, Hath from her chains arisen. And shall a soul Thou bidst be free, Return to bondage?--never! Thee, O God, and only Thee I live for, now and ever.

[1] "And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison...and his chains fell off from his hands."--Acts, xii. 7.

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

(AIR.--ROUSSEAU.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling; Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the couch of Nature falling, Gently the night's soft curtains close. Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining, Numberless stars, thro' yonder dark, Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining From out the veils that hid the Ark.

Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest, Thou who in silence throned above, Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love. Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely, Our souls awhile from life withdrawn May in their darkness stilly, purely, Like "sealed fountains," rest till dawn.

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

(AIR.--HASSE.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted? Thro' what Elysium more bright Than fancy or hope ever painted, Walk ye in glory and light? Who the same kingdom inherits? Breathes there a soul that may dare Look to that world of Spirits, Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring Nature thro' all her bright ways, Went like the Seraphs adoring, And veiled your eyes in the blaze-- Martyrs! who left for our reaping Truths you had sown in your blood-- Sinners! whom, long years of weeping Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent, Turning away your pale brows From earth and the light of the Present, Looked to your Heavenly Spouse-- Say, thro' what region enchanted Walk ye in Heaven's sweet air? Say, to what spirits 'tis granted, Bright, souls, to dwell with you there?

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

(AIR--ANONYMOUS.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies-- Like morning larks that sweeter sing The nearer Heaven they rise,

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune, Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes, Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon, Whose madness in their ode breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute, Round which Devotion ties Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit, And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be., Most welcome to the hero's ears, Alas, his chords of victory Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run, Who hymn like Saints above, No victor but the Eternal One, No trophies but of Love!

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT,

(AIR.--STEVENSON.)

Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1] And rejoice; for the day of our freedom is come! From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale, Looking motionless down,[3] saw the kings of the earth, In the presence of God's mighty champion grow pale-- Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth! Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our freedom is come!

Bring myrtle and palm--bring the boughs of each tree That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.[4] From that day when the footsteps of Israel shone With a light not their own, thro' the Jordan's deep tide, Whose waters shrunk back as the ark glided on[5]-- Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride! Go forth to the Mount--bring the olive-branch home, And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

[1] And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, "Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,'! etc.--Neh. viii. 15.

[2] "For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so; and there was very great gladness."-- Ib. 17.

[3] "Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon and thou Moon, in the valley of Ajalon."--Josh. x. 12.

[4] "Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths."

--Neh. viii. 15.

[5] "And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground."--Josh. iii. 17.

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

(AIR.--HAYDN.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, When the Spirit leaves this sphere. Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her To those she long hath mourned for here?

Hearts from which 'twas death to sever. Eyes this world can ne'er restore, There, as warm, as bright as ever, Shall meet us and be lost no more.

When wearily we wander, asking Of earth and heaven, where are they, Beneath whose smile we once lay basking, Blest and thinking bliss would stay?

Hope still lifts her radiant finger Pointing to the eternal Home, Upon whose portal yet they linger, Looking back for us to come.

Alas, alas--doth Hope deceive us? Shall friendship--love--shall all those ties That bind a moment, and then leave us, Be found again where nothing dies?

Oh, if no other boon were given, To keep our hearts from wrong and stain, Who would not try to win a Heaven Where all we love shall live again?

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

(AIR.--NOVELLO.)

"War against Babylon!" shout we around, Be our banners through earth unfurled; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound-- "War against Babylon!" shout thro' the world! Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters,[1] Thy day of pride is ended now; And the dark curse of Israel's daughters Breaks like a thundercloud over thy brow! War, war, war against Babylon!

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,[2] Set the standard of God on high; Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields. "Zion" our watchword, and "vengeance" our cry! Woe! woe!--the time of thy visitation[3] Is come, proud land, thy doom is cast-- And the black surge of desolation Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last! War, war, war against Babylon!

[1] "Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters...thine end is come."--Jer. li. 13.

[2] "Make bright the arrows; gather the shields...set up the standard upon the walls of Babylon"--Jer. li. 11, 12.

[3] "Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!"--Jer. l. 27.

A MELOLOGUE UPON NATIONAL MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.

These verses were written for a Benefit at the Dublin Theatre, and were spoken by Miss Smith, with a degree of success, which they owed solely to her admirable manner of reciting them. I wrote them in haste; and it very rarely happens that poetry which has cost but little labor to the writer is productive of any great pleasure to the reader. Under this impression, I certainly should not have published them if they had not found their way into some of the newspapers with such an addition of errors to their own original stock, that I thought it but fair to limit their responsibility to those faults alone which really belong to them.

With respect to the title which I have invented for this Poem, I feel even more than the scruples of the Emperor Tiberius, when he humbly asked pardon of the Roman Senate for using "the outlandish term, monopoly." But the truth is, having written the Poem with the sole view of serving a Benefit, I thought that an unintelligible word of this kind would not be without its attraction for the multitude, with whom, "If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." To some of my readers, however, it may not be superfluous to say, that by "Melologue," I mean that mixture of recitation of music, which is frequently adopted in the performance of Collins's Ode on the Passions, and of which the most striking example I can remember is the prophetic speech of Joad in the Athalie of Racine.

T.M.

MELOLOGUE

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA.

There breathes a language known and felt Far as the pure air spreads its living zone; Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt, That language of the soul is felt and known. From those meridian plains, Where oft, of old, on some high tower The soft Peruvian poured his midnight strains, And called his distant love with such sweet power, That, when she heard the lonely lay, Not worlds could keep her from his arms away,[1] To the bleak climes of polar night, Where blithe, beneath a sunless sky, The Lapland lover bids his reindeer fly, And sings along the lengthening waste of snow, Gayly as if the blessed light Of vernal Phoebus burned upon his brow; Oh Music! thy celestial claim Is still resistless, still the same; And, faithful as the mighty sea To the pale star that o'er its realm presides, The spell-bound tides Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

[1] "A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be his wife, and he my husband.'"--"Garcilasso de la Véga," in Sir Paul Ryeaut's translation.

GREEK AIR

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in Music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return; When Athens nurst her olive bough With hands by tyrant power unchained; And braided for the muse's brow A wreath by tyrant touch unstained. When heroes trod each classic field Where coward feet now faintly falter; When every arm was Freedom's shield, And every heart was Freedom's altar!

FLOURISH OF TRUMPETS.

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, tho' her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valor's fever at the sound. See, from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights: A conqueror oft--a hero never-- Yet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 'twere like his mountain rill, And gushed forever!

Yes, Music, here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, vague career, Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power.-- There's a wild air which oft, among the rocks Of his own loved land, at evening hour, Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks, Whose every note hath power to thrill his mind With tenderest thoughts; to bring around his knees The rosy children whom he left behind, And fill each little angel eye With speaking tears, that ask him why He wandered from his hut for scenes like these. Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar; Sweet notes of home, of love, are all he hears; And the stern eyes that looked for blood before Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears.

SWISS AIR.--"RANZ DES VACHES."

But wake, the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs, And Freedom's spirit guides the laboring storm, 'Tis then thy vengeance takes a hallowed form, And like Heaven's lightning sacredly destroys. Nor, Music, thro' thy breathing sphere, Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear Of Him who made all harmony, Than the blest sound of fetters breaking, And the first hymn that man awaking From Slavery's slumber breathes to Liberty.

SPANISH CHORUS.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, Like morning's music on the air; And seems in every note to swear By Saragossa's ruined streets, By brave Gerona's deathful story, That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats, That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory.

SPANISH AIR.--"YA DESPERTO."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal Which shuts so close the books of Europe's right-- What song shall then in sadness tell Of broken pride, of prospects shaded, Of buried hopes, remembered well Of ardor quenched, and honor faded? What muse shall mourn the breathless brave, In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine? What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave? Oh Erin, Thine!

SET OF GLEES,

MUSIC BY MOORE.

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

When o'er the silent seas alone, For days and nights we've cheerless gone, Oh they who've felt it know how sweet, Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is every eye, "Ship ahoy!" our joyful cry; While answering back the sounds we hear, "Ship ahoy!" what cheer? what...cheer?

Then sails are backed, we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends and home; And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.

HIP, HIP, HURRA!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim, He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him; Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue, Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine; Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft, May the links that are lost but endear what are left!" Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour; On hearts thus united old Time has no power. May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night, They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright. Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one; Here's the poet who sings--here's the warrior who fights-- Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!--then drink as you please, Tho', who could fill half-way to toast such as these? Here's our next joyous meeting--and oh when we meet, May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet! Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

HUSH, HUSH!

"Hush, hush!"--how well That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel, Walks his night-rounds; Then, if a foot but dare One rose-leaf crush, Myriads of voices in the air Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!" The night elves cry, And hush their fairy harmony, While he steals by; But if his silvery feet One dew-drop brush, Voices are heard in chorus sweet, Whispering, "Hush, hush!"

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed, To conquer or be slaves: This sun shall see our nation free, Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love, May heaven thy guardian be, And send bright angels from above To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field, Where freedom's standard waves, This sun shall see our tyrant yield, Or shine upon our graves.

THE WATCHMAN.

A TRIO.

WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest-- How fast the moments fly! 'Tis time to part, thou hearest That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock--past one.

Yet stay a moment longer-- Alas! why is it so, The wish to stay grows stronger, The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock--past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee-- The hours must sure go wrong, For when they're past without thee, They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Again that dreadful warning! Had ever time such flight? And see the sky, 'tis morning-- So now, indeed, good night.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Goodnight, good night.

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

Say, what shall we dance? Shall we bound along the moonlight plain, To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain? Say, what shall we dance? Shall we, like those who rove Thro' bright Grenada's grove, To the light Bolero's measures move? Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay, And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords, Let us hear each strain from every shore That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er. Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time, The Polish lady, by her lover led, Delights thro' gay saloons with step untried to tread, Or sweeter still, thro' moonlight walks Whose shadows serve to hide The blush that's raised by who talks Of love the while by her side, Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound Like dreams we go gliding around, Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

THE EVENING GUN.

Remember'st thou that setting sun, The last I saw with thee, When loud we heard the evening gun Peal o'er the twilight sea? Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep, They seemed to die away. Oft, when the toils of day are done, In pensive dreams of thee, I sit to hear that evening gun, Peal o'er the stormy sea. Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled. The distant sounds decay, I weep and wish, from this rough world Like them to die away.

LEGENDARY BALLADS.

TO

THE MISS FEILDINGS,

THIS VOLUME

IS INSCRIBED

BY

THEIR FAITHFUL FRIEND AND SERVANT,

THOMAS MOORE.

LEGENDARY BALLADS

THE VOICE.

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days, When love, only love was the light of her ways; And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago, It whispered her name from the garden below.

"Alas," sighed the maiden, "how fancy can cheat! "The world once had lips that could whisper thus sweet; "But cold now they slumber in yon fatal deep. "Where, oh that beside them this heart too could sleep!"

She sunk on her pillow--but no, 'twas in vain To chase the illusion, that Voice came again! She flew to the casement--but, husht as the grave, In moonlight lay slumbering woodland and wave.

"Oh sleep, come and shield me," in anguish she said, "From that call of the buried, that cry of the Dead!" And sleep came around her--but, starting, she woke, For still from the garden that spirit Voice spoke!

"I come," she exclaimed, "be thy home where it may, "On earth or in Heaven, that call I obey;" Then forth thro' the moonlight, with heart beating fast And loud as a death-watch, the pale maiden past.

Still round her the scene all in loneliness shone; And still, in the distance, that Voice led her on; But whither she wandered, by wave or by shore, None ever could tell, for she came back no more.

No, ne'er came she back,--but the watchman who stood, That night, in the tower which o'ershadows the flood, Saw dimly, 'tis said, o'er the moonlighted spray, A youth on a steed bear the maiden away.

CUPID AND PSYCHE.

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;-- Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened, And evil the lips she in darkness had prest.

"When next in thy chamber the bridegroom reclineth, "Bring near him thy lamp, when in slumber he lies; "And there, as the light, o'er his dark features shineth, "Thou'lt see what a demon hath won all thy sighs!"

Too fond to believe them, yet doubting, yet fearing, When calm lay the sleeper she stole with her light; And saw--such a vision!--no image, appearing To bards in their day-dreams, was ever so bright.

A youth, but just passing from childhood's sweet morning, While round him still lingered its innocent ray; Tho' gleams, from beneath his shut eyelids gave warning Of summer-noon lightnings that under them lay.

His brow had a grace more than mortal around it, While, glossy as gold from a fairy-land mine, His sunny hair hung, and the flowers that crowned it Seemed fresh from the breeze of some garden divine.

Entranced stood the bride, on that miracle gazing, What late was but love is idolatry now; But, ah--in her tremor the fatal lamp raising-- A sparkle flew from it and dropt on his brow.

All's lost--with a start from his rosy sleep waking; The Spirit flashed o'er her his glances of fire; Then, slow from the clasp of her snowy arms breaking, Thus said, in a voice more of sorrow than ire:

"Farewell--what a dream thy suspicion hath broken! "Thus ever. Affection's fond vision is crost; "Dissolved are her spells when a doubt is but spoken, "And love, once distrusted, for ever is lost!"

HERO AND LEANDER.

"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh, "There gleameth no moon in the misty sky "No star over Helle's sea; "Yet, yet, there is shining one holy light, "One love-kindled star thro' the deep of night, "To lead me, sweet Hero, to thee!"

Thus saying, he plunged in the foamy stream, Still fixing his gaze on that distant beam No eye but a lover's could see; And still, as the surge swept over his head, "To night," he said tenderly, "living or dead, "Sweet Hero, I'll rest with thee!"

But fiercer around him, the wild waves speed; Oh, Love! in that hour of thy votary's need, Where, where could thy Spirit be? He struggles--he sinks--while the hurricane's breath Bears rudely away his last farewell in death-- "Sweet Hero, I die for thee!"

THE LEAF AND THE FOUNTAIN.

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee, "So may the stars obey thee "So may each airy "Moon-elf and fairy "Nightly their homage pay thee! "Say, by what spell, above, below, "In stars that wink or flowers that blow, "I may discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me, or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Maiden, the dark tree nigh thee "Hath charms no gold could buy thee; "Its stem enchanted. "By moon-elves planted, "Will all thou seek'st supply thee. "Climb to yon boughs that highest grow, "Bring thence their fairest leaf below; "And thou'lt discover, "Ere night is over, "Whether thy love loves thee or no, "Whether thy love loves thee."

"See, up the dark tree going, "With blossoms round me blowing, "From thence, oh Father, "This leaf I gather, "Fairest that there is growing. "Say, by what sign I now shall know "If in this leaf lie bliss or woe "And thus discover "Ere night is over, "Whether my love loves me or no, "Whether my love loves me."

"Fly to yon fount that's welling "Where moonbeam ne'er had dwelling, "Dip in its water "That leaf, oh Daughter, "And mark the tale 'tis telling;[1] "Watch thou if pale or bright it glow, "List thou, the while, that fountain's flow, "And thou'lt discover "Whether thy lover, "Loved as he is, loves thee or no, "Loved as he is, loves thee."

Forth flew the nymph, delighted, To seek that fount benighted; But, scarce a minute The leaf lay in it, When, lo, its bloom was blighted! And as she asked, with voice of woe-- Listening, the while, that fountain's flow-- "Shall I recover "My truant lover?" The fountain seemed to answer, "No;" The fountain answered, "No."

[1] The ancients had a mode of divination somewhat similar to this; and we find the Emperor Adrian, when he went to consult the Fountain of Castalia, plucking a bay leaf, and dipping it into the sacred water.

CEPHALUS AND PROCRIS.

A hunter once in that grove reclined, To shun the noon's bright eye, And oft he wooed the wandering wind, To cool his brow with its sigh, While mute lay even the wild bee's hum, Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair, His song was still "Sweet air, oh come?" While Echo answered, "Come, sweet Air!"

But, hark, what sounds from the thicket rise! What meaneth that rustling spray? "'Tis the white-horned doe," the Hunter cries, "I have sought since break of day." Quick o'er the sunny glade he springs, The arrow flies from his sounding bow, "Hilliho-hilliho!" he gayly sings, While Echo sighs forth "Hilliho!"

Alas, 'twas not the white-horned doe He saw in the rustling grove, But the bridal veil, as pure as snow, Of his own young wedded love. And, ah, too sure that arrow sped, For pale at his feet he sees her lie;-- "I die, I die," was all she said, While Echo murmured. "I die, I die!"

YOUTH AND AGE.

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crest his way.-- "It is a sunny hour of play, "For which repentance dear doth pay; "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love, as wise men say." "Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth once more, Fearful, yet fond, of Age's lore.-- "Soft as a passing summer's wind, "Wouldst know the blight it leaves behind? "Repentance! Repentance! "And this is Love--when love is o'er."

"Tell me, what's Love? "said Youth again, Trusting the bliss, but not the pain. "Sweet as a May tree's scented air-- "Mark ye what bitter fruit 'twill bear, "Repentance! Repentance! "This, this is Love--sweet Youth, beware."

Just then, young Love himself came by, And cast on Youth a smiling eye; Who could resist that glance's ray? In vain did Age his warning say, "Repentance! Repentance!" Youth laughing went with Love away.

THE DYING WARRIOR.

A wounded Chieftain, lying By the Danube's leafy side, Thus faintly said, in dying, "Oh! bear, thou foaming tide. "This gift to my lady-bride."

'Twas then, in life's last quiver, He flung the scarf he wore Into the foaming river, Which, ah too quickly, bore That pledge of one no more!

With fond impatience burning, The Chieftain's lady stood, To watch her love returning In triumph down the flood, From that day's field of blood.

But, field, alas, ill-fated! The lady saw, instead Of the bark whose speed she waited, Her hero's scarf, all red With the drops his heart had shed.

One shriek--and all was over-- Her life-pulse ceased to beat; The gloomy waves now cover That bridal-flower so sweet. And the scarf is her winding sheet!

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power "To call up forms we sigh to see; "Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower, "Where last she pledged her truth to me."

The Wizard showed him his Lady bright, Where lone and pale in her bower she lay; "True-hearted maid," said the happy Knight, "She's thinking of one, who is far away."

But, lo! a page, with looks of joy, Brings tidings to the Lady's ear; "'Tis," said the Knight, "the same bright boy, "Who used to guide me to my dear." The Lady now, from her favorite tree, Hath, smiling, plucked a rosy flower: "Such," he exclaimed, "was the gift that she "Each morning sent me from that bower!"

She gives her page the blooming rose, With looks that say, "Like lightning, fly!" "Thus," thought the Knight, "she soothes her woes, "By fancying, still, her true-love nigh." But the page returns, and--oh, what a sight, For trusting lover's eyes to see!-- Leads to that bower another Knight, As young and, alas, as loved as he!

"Such," quoth the Youth, "is Woman's love!" Then, darting forth, with furious bound, Dashed at the Mirror his iron glove, And strewed it all in fragments round.

MORAL.

Such ills would never have come to pass, Had he ne'er sought that fatal view; The Wizard would still have kept his Glass, And the Knight still thought his Lady true.

THE PILGRIM.

Still thus, when twilight gleamed, Far off his Castle seemed, Traced on the sky; And still, as fancy bore him. To those dim towers before him, He gazed, with wishful eye; And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said, "How long, with weary tread, "Must I toil on? "Each eve, as thus I wander, "Thy towers seem rising yonder, "But, scarce hath daylight shone, "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still, Down dale and over hill, Day after day; That glimpse of home, so cheering, At twilight still appearing, But still, with morning's ray, Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now? Here, by this cypress bough, Closed his career; That dream, of fancy's weaving, No more his steps deceiving, Alike past hope and fear, The Pilgrim's home is here.

THE HIGH-BORN LADYE.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her, Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her, But worthy were none of the high-born Ladye.

"Whosoever I wed," said this maid, so excelling, "That Knight must the conqueror of conquerors be; "He must place me in halls fit for monarchs to dwell in:-- "None else shall be Lord of the high-born Ladye!

Thus spoke the proud damsel, with scorn looking round her On Knights and on Nobles of highest degree; Who humbly and hopelessly left as they found her, And worshipt at distance the high-born Ladye.

At length came a Knight, from a far land to woo her, With plumes on his helm like the foam of the sea; His visor was down--but, with voice that thrilled thro her, He whispered his vows to the high-born Ladye.

"Proud maiden! I come with high spousals to grace thee, "In me the great conqueror of conquerors see; "Enthroned in a hall fit for monarchs I'll place thee, "And mine, thou'rt for ever, thou high-born Ladye!"

The maiden she smiled, and in jewels arrayed her, Of thrones and tiaras already dreamt she; And proud was the step, as her bridegroom conveyed her In pomp to his home, of that highborn Ladye.

"But whither," she, starting, exclaims, "have you, led me? "Here's naught but a tomb and a dark cypress tree; "Is this the bright palace in which thou wouldst wed me?" With scorn in her glance said the high-born Ladye.

"Tis the home," he replied, "of earth's loftiest creatures"-- Then lifted his helm for the fair one to see; But she sunk on the ground--'twas a skeleton's features And Death was the Lord of the high-born Ladye!

THE INDIAN BOAT.

'Twas midnight dark, The seaman's bark, Swift o'er the waters bore him, When, thro' the night, He spied a light Shoot o'er the wave before him. "A sail! a sail!" he cries; "She comes from the Indian shore "And to-night shall be our prize, "With her freight of golden ore; "Sail on! sail on!" When morning shone He saw the gold still clearer; But, though so fast The waves he past That boat seemed never the nearer.

Bright daylight came, And still the same Rich bark before him floated; While on the prize His wishful eyes Like any young lover's doted: "More sail! more sail!" he cries, While the waves overtop the mast; And his bounding galley flies, Like an arrow before the blast. Thus on, and on, Till day was gone, And the moon thro' heaven did hie her, He swept the main, But all in vain, That boat seemed never the nigher.

And many a day To night gave way, And many a morn succeeded: While still his flight, Thro day and night, That restless mariner speeded. Who knows--who knows what seas He is now careering o'er? Behind, the eternal breeze, And that mocking bark, before! For, oh, till sky And earth shall die, And their death leave none to rue it, That boat must flee O'er the boundless sea, And that ship in vain pursue it.

THE STRANGER.

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger Hears soft fairy music re-echo around.

None e'er knew the name of that heart-stricken lady, Her language, tho' sweet, none could e'er understand; But her features so sunned, and her eyelash so shady, Bespoke her a child of some far Eastern land.

'Twas one summer night, when the village lay sleeping, A soft strain of melody came o'er our ears; So sweet, but so mournful, half song and half weeping, Like music that Sorrow had steeped in her tears.

We thought 'twas an anthem some angel had sung us;-- But, soon as the day-beams had gushed from on high, With wonder we saw this bright stranger among us, All lovely and lone, as if strayed from the sky.

Nor long did her life for this sphere seem intended, For pale was her cheek, with that spirit-like hue, Which comes when the day of this world is nigh ended, And light from another already shines through.

Then her eyes, when she sung--oh, but once to have seen them-- Left thoughts in the soul that can never depart; While her looks and her voice made a language between them, That spoke more than holiest words to the heart.

But she past like a day-dream, no skill could restore her-- Whate'er was her sorrow, its ruin came fast; She died with the same spell of mystery o'er her. That song of past days on her lips to the last.

Not even in the grave is her sad heart reposing-- Still hovers the spirit of grief round her tomb; For oft, when the shadows of midnight are closing, The same strain of music is heard thro' the gloom.

BALLADS, SONGS, ETC.

TO-DAY, DEAREST! IS OURS.

To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers Just as we, weak mortals, use it. 'Tis time enough, when its flowers decay, To think of the thorns of Sorrow And Joy, if left on the stem to-day, May wither before to-morrow.

Then why, dearest! so long Let the sweet moments fly over? Tho' now, blooming and young Thou hast me devoutly thy lover; Yet Time from both, in his silent lapse, Some treasure may steal or borrow; Thy charms may be less in bloom, perhaps, Or I less in love to-morrow.

WHEN ON THE LIP THE SIGH DELAYS.

When on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze, Yet still look down and venture never; When, tho' with fairest nymphs we rove, There's one we dream of more than any-- If all this is not real love, 'Tis something wondrous like it, Fanny!

To think and ponder, when apart, On all we've got to say at meeting; And yet when near, with heart to heart, Sit mute and listen to their beating: To see but one bright object move, The only moon, where stars are many-- If all this is not downright love, I prithee say what is, my Fanny!

When Hope foretells the brightest, best, Tho' Reason on the darkest reckons; When Passion drives us to the west, Tho' Prudence to the eastward beckons; When all turns round, below, above, And our own heads the most of any-- If this is not stark, staring love, Then you and I are sages, Fanny.

HERE, TAKE MY HEART.

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping, What need I care, so my heart is with thee?

If in the race we are destined to run, love, They who have light hearts the happiest be, Then happier still must be they who have none, love. And that will be my case when mine is with thee.

It matters not where I may now be a rover, I care not how many bright eyes I may see; Should Venus herself come and ask me to love her, I'd tell her I couldn't--my heart is with thee.

And there let it lie, growing fonder and, fonder-- For, even should Fortune turn truant to me, Why, let her go--I've a treasure beyond her, As long as my heart's out at interest With thee!

OH, CALL IT BY SOME BETTER NAME.

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame, Whose shrine must be of gold: And Passion, like the sun at noon, That burns o'er all he sees, Awhile as warm will set as soon-- Then call it none of these.

Imagine something purer far, More free from stain of clay Than Friendship, Love, or Passion are, Yet human, still as they: And if thy lip, for love like this, No mortal word can frame, Go, ask of angels what it is, And call it by that name!

POOR WOUNDED HEART

Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home, Poor wounded heart, farewell! The pain thou'lt feel in breaking Less bitter far will be, Than that long, deadly aching, This life has been to thee.

There--broken heart, farewell! The pang is o'er-- The parting pang is o'er; Thou now wilt bleed no more. Poor broken heart, farewell! No rest for thee but dying-- Like waves whose strife is past, On death's cold shore thus lying, Thou sleepst in peace at last-- Poor broken heart, farewell!

THE EAST INDIAN.

Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers, The fragrant breath at morn: When, May-flies haunt the willow, When May-buds tempt the bee, Then o'er the shining billow My love will come to me.

From Eastern Isles she's winging Thro' watery wilds her way, And on her cheek is bringing The bright sun's orient ray: Oh, come and court her hither, Ye breezes mild and warm-- One winter's gale would wither So soft, so pure a form.

The fields where she was straying Are blest with endless light, With zephyrs always playing Thro' gardens always bright. Then now, sweet May! be sweeter Than e'er, thou'st been before; Let sighs from roses meet her When she comes near our shore.

POOR BROKEN FLOWER.

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-- In vain the sunbeams seek To warm that faded cheek; The dews of heaven, that once like balm fell over thee; Now are but tears, to weep thy early death.

So droops the maid whose lover hath forsaken her,-- Thrown from his arms, as lone and lost as thou; In vain the smiles of all Like sunbeams round her fall: The only smile that could from death awaken her, That smile, alas! is gone to others now.

THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest; Saying, "Pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shall be, "And I'll worship each bud thou bearest. "For the hearts of this world are hollow, "And fickle the smiles we follow; "And 'tis sweet, when all "Their witcheries pall "To have a pure love to fly to: "So, my pretty Rose-tree, "Thou my mistress shalt be, "And the only one now I shall sigh to."

When the beautiful hue Of thy cheek thro' the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, "Sweet tears," I shall say (As I brush them away), "At least there's no art in this weeping" Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow; 'Twill not be from pain or sorrow; And the thorns of thy stem Are not like them With which men wound each other; So, my pretty Rose-tree, Thou my mistress shalt be And I'll never again sigh to another.

SHINE OUT, STARS!

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, All to grace this Eve of May. Let the flower-beds all lie waking, And the odors shut up there, From their downy prisons breaking, Fly abroad thro sea and air.

And Would Love, too, bring his sweetness, With our other joys to weave, Oh what glory, what completeness, Then would crown this bright May Eve! Shine out, Stars! let night assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble, To adorn this Eve of May.

THE YOUNG MULETEERS OF GRENADA.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting, at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Sit and sing the sunshine away; So merry, that even the slumbers That round us hung seem gone; Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers Again beguile them on. Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana In sleep still breathes the sigh, The name of some black-eyed Tirana, Escapes our lips as we lie. Till, with morning's rosy twinkle, Again we're up and gone-- While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle Beguiles the rough way on. Oh the joys of our merry posada, Where, resting at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada, Thus sing the gay moments away.

TELL HER, OH, TELL HER.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing, But not a soft whisper replies to their prayer.

Tell her, oh, tell her, the tree that, in going, Beside the green arbor she playfully set, As lovely as, ever is blushing and blowing, And not a, bright leaflet has fallen from it yet.

So while away from that arbor forsaken, The maiden is wandering, still let her be As true as the lute that no sighing can waken And blooming for ever, unchanged as the tree!

NIGHTS OF MUSIC.

Nights of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. When we went by moonlight roving, Hearts all love and lips all song. When this faithful lute recorded All my spirit felt to thee; And that smile the song rewarded-- Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor, Filled with joys too sweet to last-- Joys that, like the star-light, tender, While they shore no shadow cast. Tho' all other happy hours From my fading memory fly, Of, that starlight, of those bowers, Not a beam, a leaf may die!

OUR FIRST YOUNG LOVE.

Our first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles and weeps and trembles Thro' April's earliest day. And not all life before us, Howe'er its lights may play, Can shed a lustre o'er us Like that first April ray.

Our summer sun may squander A blaze serener, grander; Our autumn beam May, like a dream Of heaven, die calm away; But no--let life before us Bring all the light it may, 'Twill ne'er shed lustre o'er us Like that first youthful ray.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without Caring who feels 'em; But the soft eye of blue, Tho' it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em-- Dear Fanny! Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

The black eye may say, "Come and worship my ray-- "By adoring, perhaps you may move me!" But the blue eye, half hid, Says from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!" Yes, Fanny! The blue eye, half hid, Says, from under its lid, "I love and am yours, if you love me!"

Come tell me, then, why In that lovely blue eye Not a charm of its tint I discover; Oh why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover? Dear Fanny! Oh, why should you wear The only blue pair That ever said "No" to a lover?

DEAR FANNY.

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool; "She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;" Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, Dear Fanny. 'Tis not the first time I have thought so.

"She is lovely; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; "'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;" Thus Love has advised me and who will deny That Love reasons much better than Reason, Dear Fanny? Love reasons much better than Reason.

FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding--haste, haste to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains-- The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh, even if Freedom from this world be driven, Despair not--at least we shall find her in heaven.

HERE'S THE BOWER.

Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touch-- Oh, how that touch enchanted! Roses now unheeded sigh; Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie; Where's the lip to breathe them? Here's the bower, etc.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved Ne'er shall feel its sweetness; Time, that once so fleetly moved, Now hath lost its fleetness. Years were days, when here she strayed, Days were moments near her; Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, Nor Pity wept a dearer! Here's the bower, etc.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR.

A FINLAND LOVE SONG.

I saw the moon rise clear O'er hills and vales of snow Nor told my fleet reindeer The track I wished to go. Yet quick he bounded forth; For well my reindeer knew I've but one path on earth-- The path which leads to you.

The gloom that winter cast, How soon the heart forgets, When summer brings, at last, Her sun that never sets! So dawned my love for you; So, fixt thro' joy and pain, Than summer sun more true, 'Twill never set again.

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played; "Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love, "Thou, whose gay hours in sunshine should move." "I ne'er," said the Dial, "have seen the warm sun, "So noonday and midnight to me, Love, are one."

Then Love took the Dial away from the shade, And placed her where Heaven's beam warmly played. There she reclined, beneath Love's gazing eye, While, marked all with sunshine, her hours flew by. "Oh, how," said the Dial, "can any fair maid "That's born to be shone upon rest in the shade?"

But night now comes on and the sunbeam's o'er, And Love stops to gaze on the Dial no more. Alone and neglected, while bleak rain and winds Are storming around her, with sorrow she finds That Love had but numbered a few sunny hours,-- Then left the remainder to darkness and showers!

LOVE AND TIME.

'Tis said--but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'em-- That Love and Time have only got One pair of wings between 'em. In Courtship's first delicious hour, The boy full oft can spare 'em; So, loitering in his lady's bower, He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. Then is Time's hour of play; Oh, how be flies, flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright, When he the wings can borrow; If Time to-day has had his flight, Love takes his turn to-morrow. Ah! Time and Love, your change is then The saddest and most trying, When one begins to limp again, And t'other takes to flying. Then is Love's hour to stray; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel, And bless the silken fetter, Who knows, the dear one, how to deal With Love and Time much better. So well she checks their wanderings, So peacefully she pairs 'em, That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, And Time for ever wears 'em. This is Time's holiday; Oh, how he flies, flies away!

LOVE'S LIGHT SUMMER-CLOUD.

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us-- Youth may wither, but feeling will last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us Love's light summer-cloud only shall cast. Oh, if to love thee more Each hour I number o'er-- If this a passion be Worthy of thee, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee. Charms may wither, but feeling shall last: All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee, Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast. Rest, dear bosom, no sorrows shall pain thee, Sighs of pleasure alone shalt thou steal; Beam, bright eyelid, no weeping shall stain thee, Tears of rapture alone shalt thou feel. Oh, if there be a charm, In love, to banish harm-- If pleasure's truest spell Be to love well, Then be happy, for thus I adore thee, Charms may wither, but feeling shall last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er thee. Love's light summer-cloud sweetly shall cast.

LOVE, WANDERING THRO' THE GOLDEN MAZE.

Love, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved's hair, Traced every lock with fond delays, And, doting, lingered there. And soon he found 'twere vain to fly; His heart was close confined, For, every ringlet was a tie-- A chain by beauty twined.

MERRILY EVERY BOSOM BOUNDETH.

(THE TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY.)

Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of Freedom soundeth, Merrily oh! There the warrior's arms Shed more splendor; There the maiden's charm's Shine more tender; Every joy the land surroundeth, Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily, oh! Where the bond of slavery twineth Wearily, oh There the warrior's dart Hath no fleetness; There the maiden's heart Hath no sweetness-- Every flower of life declineth, Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily, oh! Like your native fountain sally, Cheerily, oh! If a glorious death, Won by bravery, Sweeter be than breath Sighed in slavery, Round the flag of Freedom rally, Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!

REMEMBER THE TIME.

(THE CASTILIAN MAID.)

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, When our moments so blissfully flew; When you called me the flower of Castilian maids, And I blushed to be called so by you; When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille. And to dance to the light castanet; Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will, The delight of those moments forget.

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle, Every hour a new passion can feel; And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile. You'll forget the poor maid of Castile. But they know not how brave in battle you are, Or they never could think you would rove; For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war That is fondest and truest in Love.

OH, SOON RETURN.

Our white sail caught the evening ray, The wave beneath us seemed to burn, When all the weeping maid could say, Was, "Oh, soon return!" Thro' many a clime our ship was driven O'er many a billow rudely thrown; Now chilled beneath a northern heaven, Now sunned in summer's zone: And still, where'er we bent our way, When evening bid the west wave burn, I fancied still I heard her say, "Oh, soon return!"

If ever yet my bosom found Its thoughts one moment turned from thee, 'Twas when the combat raged around, And brave men looked to me. But tho' the war-field's wild alarm For gentle love was all unmeet, He lent to glory's brow the charm, Which made even danger sweet. And still, when victory's calm came o'er The hearts where rage had ceased to burn, Those parting words I heard once more, "Oh, soon return!--Oh, soon return!"

LOVE THEE?

Love thee?--so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Were worthless without thee. Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare, Life's cup before me lay, Unless thy love were mingled there, I'd spurn the draft away. Love thee?--so well, so tenderly, Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty, Are worthless without thee.

Without thy smile, the monarch's lot To me were dark and lone, While, with it, even the humblest cot Were brighter than his throne. Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs For me would have no charms; My only world thy gentle eyes-- My throne thy circling arms! Oh, yes, so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Whole realms of light and liberty Were worthless without thee.

ONE DEAR SMILE.

Couldst thou look as dear as when First I sighed for thee; Couldst thou make me feel again Every wish I breathed thee then, Oh, how blissful life would be! Hopes that now beguiling leave me, Joys that lie in slumber cold-- All would wake, couldst thou but give me One dear smile like those of old.

No--there's nothing left us now, But to mourn the past; Vain was every ardent vow-- Never yet did Heaven allow Love so warm, so wild, to last. Not even hope could now deceive me-- Life itself looks dark and cold; Oh, thou never more canst give me One dear smile like those of old

YES, YES, WHEN THE BLOOM.

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay; And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore, The charms that remain will be bright as before, And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away. Then let it console thee, if Love should not stay, That Friendship our last happy moments will crown: Like the shadows of morning, Love lessens away, While Friendship, like those at the closing of day, Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.

THE DAY OF LOVE.

The beam of morning trembling Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling Affection's early look. Thus love begins--sweet morn of love!

The noon-tide ray ascended, And o'er the valley's stream Diffused a glow as splendid As passion's riper dream. Thus love expands--warm noon of love!

But evening came, o'ershading The glories of the sky, Like faith and fondness fading From passion's altered eye. Thus love declines--cold eve of love!

LUSITANIAN WAR-SONG.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains Of slavery's lingering chains; Till not one tyrant tread our plains, Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains. No! never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say, "Your cloud of foes hath past away, "And Freedom comes with new-born ray "To gild your vines and light your fountains." Oh, never till that glorious day Shall Lusitania's sons be gay, Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.