Forgive me, Forbes—and should the song destroy One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,— Oh! turn to him, beneath those kindred eyes Thy talents open and thy virtues rise, Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him. Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, And feel that man may reach perfection yet.

[1] "What will be the old age of this government, if it is thus early decrepit!" Such was the remark of Fauchet, the French minister at Philadelphia, in that famous despatch to his government, which was intercepted by one of our cruisers in the year 1794. This curious memorial may be found in Porcupine's Works, vol. i. p. 279. It remains a striking monument of republican intrigue on one side and republican profligacy on the other; and I would recommend the perusal of it to every honest politician, who may labor under a moment's delusion with respect to the purity of American patriotism.

[2] See Porcupine's account of the Pennsylvania Insurrection in 1794. In short, see Porcupine's works throughout, for ample corroboration of every sentiment which I have ventured to express. In saying this, I refer less to the comments of that writer than to the occurrences which he has related and the documents which he has preserved. Opinion may be suspected of bias, but facts speak for themselves.



TO THOMAS HUME, ESQ., M. D.

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON.

'Tis evening now; beneath the western star Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, And fills the ears of some consenting she With puffs and vows, with smoke and constancy.

The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, Now pleased retires to lash his slaves at home; Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms, And dream of freedom in his bondsmaid's arms.

In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom, Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome!"[1] Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose-Creek once is Tiber now:[2]— This embryo capital, where Fancy sees Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; Which second-sighted seers, even now, adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn, Though naught but woods[3] and Jefferson they see, Where streets should run and sages ought to be.

And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave, The dying sun prepares his golden grave. Oh mighty river! oh ye banks of shade! Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, While still, in all the exuberance of prime, She poured her wonders, lavishly sublime, Nor yet had learned to stoop, with humbler care, From grand to soft, from wonderful to fair;— Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Your rich savannas and majestic woods, Where bards should meditate and heroes rove, And woman charm, and man deserve her love,— Oh say, was world so bright, but born to grace Its own half-organized, half-minded race[4] Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast, Like vermin gendered on the lion's crest? Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demigods should dare to roam? Or worse, thou wondrous world! oh! doubly worse, Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime Which Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, In full malignity to rankle here?

But hold,—observe yon little mount of pines, Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines. There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptured image of that veteran chief[5] Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, And climb'd o'er prostrate royalty to fame; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Cast off their monarch that their mob might reign.

How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? Thou more than soldier and just less than sage! Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part, Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, Nature designed thee for a hero's mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold.

While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate, Thy fate made thee and forced thee to be great. Yet Fortune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Her brightest halo round the weakest heads, Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less moved by glory's than by duty's claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All that thou wert reflects less fame on thee, Far less, than all thou didst forbear to be. Nor yet the patriot of one land alone,— For, thine's a name all nations claim their own; And every shore, where breathed the good and brave, Echoed the plaudits thy own country gave.

Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls,— If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, If thou canst loathe and execrate with me The poisoning drug of French philosophy, That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, If thou has got, within thy free-born breast, One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest, With honest scorn for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and whines beneath a mob's control, Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, And makes, like Egypt, every beast its god, There, in those walls—but, burning tongue forbear! Rank must be reverenced, even the rank that's there: So here I pause—and now, dear Hume, we part: But oft again, in frank exchange of heart, Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here. O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs, 'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, Thy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes With me shall wonder, and with me despise. While I, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, With thee conversing, through that land I love, Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, Her freedom spreads, unfevered and serene; And sovereign man can condescend to see The throne and laws more sovereign still than he.

[1] "On the original location of the ground now allotted for the seat of the Federal City [says Mr. Weld] the identical spot on which the capitol now stands was called Rome. This anecdote is related by many as a certain prognostic of the future magnificence of this city, which is to be, as it were, a second Rome."—Weld's Travels, letter iv.

[2] A little stream runs through the city, which, with intolerable affectation, they have styled the Tiber. It was originally called Goose- Creek.

[3] "To be under the necessity of going through a deep wood for one or two miles, perhaps, in order to see a next-door neighbor, and in the same city, is a curious and I believe, a novel circumstance."—Weld, letter iv.

The Federal City (if it, must be called a city), has hot been much increased since Mr. Weld visited it.

[4] The picture which Buffon and De Pauw have drawn of the American Indian, though very humiliating, is, as far as I can judge, much more correct than the flattering representations which Mr. Jefferson has given us. See the Notes on Virginia, where this gentleman endeavors to disprove in general the opinion maintained so strongly by some philosophers that nature (as Mr. Jefferson expresses it) belittles her productions in the western world.

[5] On a small hill near the capital there is to be an equestrian statue of General Washington.



LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING PHILADELPHIA.

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved, And he gazed on its flowery banks with a sigh.

Oh Nature, though blessed and bright are thy rays, O'er the brow of creation enchantingly thrown, Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays In a smile from the heart that is fondly our own.

Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languished to meet; Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, Till the threshold of home had been pressed by his feet.

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to their ear, And they loved what they knew of so humble a name; And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear, That they found in his heart something better than fame.

Nor did woman—oh woman! Whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the life of each path we pursue; Whether sunned in the tropics or chilled at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too:—

Nor did she her enamoring magic deny,— That magic his heart had relinquished so long,— Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye, Like them did it soften and weep at his song.

Oh, blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be shed o'er the wanderer's dream; Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam!

The stranger is gone—but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, As he strayed by the wave of the Schuylkill alone.



LINES WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OR FALLS OF THE MOHAWK KIVER.[1]

Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo Dell' acqua. DANTE.

From rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; And as I markt the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass: And as I viewed the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untried and wild, Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled, Flying by every green recess That wooed him to its calm caress, Yet, sometimes turning with the wind, As if to leave one look behind,— Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed, How like to thee, thou restless tide, May be the lot, the life of him Who roams along thy water's brim; Through what alternate wastes of woe And flowers of joy my path may go; How many a sheltered, calm retreat May woo the while my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on, nor dare to rest; But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destined falls, I feel the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the spent current cease to run.

One only prayer I dare to make, As onward thus my course I take;— Oh, be my falls as bright as thine! May heaven's relenting rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

[1] There is a dreary and savage character in the country immediately about these Falls, which is much more in harmony with the wildness of such a scene than the cultivated lands in the neighborhood of Niagara.



SONG OF THE EVIL SPIRIT OF THE WOODS.[1]

qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla OVID Metam. lib iii. v. 227.

Now the vapor, hot and damp, Shed by day's expiring lamp, Through the misty ether spreads Every ill the white man dreads; Fiery fever's thirsty thrill, Fitful ague's shivering chill!

Hark! I hear the traveller's song, As he winds the woods along;— Christian, 'tis the song of fear; Wolves are round thee, night is near, And the wild thou dar'st to roam— Think, 'twas once the Indian's home![2]

Hither, sprites, who love to harm, Wheresoe'er you work your charm, By the creeks, or by the brakes, Where the pale witch feeds her snakes, And the cayman[3] loves to creep, Torpid, to his wintry sleep: Where the bird of carrion flits, And the shuddering murderer sits,[4] Lone beneath a roof of blood; While upon his poisoned food, From the corpse of him he slew Drops the chill and gory dew.

Hither bend ye, turn ye hither, Eyes that blast and wings that wither Cross the wandering Christian's way, Lead him, ere the glimpse of day, Many a mile of maddening error Through the maze of night and terror, Till the morn behold him lying On the damp earth, pale and dying. Mock him, when his eager sight Seeks the cordial cottage-light; Gleam then, like the lightning-bug, Tempt him to the den that's dug For the foul and famished brood Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood; Or, unto the dangerous pass O'er the deep and dark morass, Where the trembling Indian brings Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, Tributes, to be hung in air, To the Fiend presiding there![5]

Then, when night's long labor past, Wildered, faint, he falls at last, Sinking where the causeway's edge Moulders in the slimy sedge, There let every noxious thing Trail its filth and fix its sting; Let the bull-toad taint him over, Round him let mosquitoes hover, In his ears and eyeballs tingling, With his blood their poison mingling, Till, beneath the solar fires, Rankling all, the wretch expires!

[1] The idea of this poem occurred to me in passing through the very dreary wilderness between Batavia, a new settlement in the midst of the woods, and the little village of Buffalo upon Lake Erie. This is the most fatiguing part of the route, in travelling through the Genesee country to Niagara.

[2] "The Five Confederated Nations (of Indians) were settled along the banks of the Susquehannah and the adjacent country, until the year 1779, when General Sullivan, with an army of 4000 men drove them from their country to Niagara, where, being obliged to live on salted provisions, to which they were unaccustomed, great numbers of them died. Two hundred of them, it is said, were buried in one grave, where they had encamped."— Morse's American Geography.

[3] The alligator, who is supposed to lie in a torpid state all the winter, in the bank of some creek or pond, having previously swallowed a large number of pine-knots, which are his only sustenance during the time.

[4] This was the mode of punishment for murder (as Charlevoix tells us) among the Hurons. "They laid the dead body upon poles at the top of a cabin, and the murderer was obliged to remain several days together, and to receive all that dropped from the carcass, not only on himself but on his food."

[5] "We find also collars of porcelain, tobacco, ears of maize, skins, etc., by the side of difficult and dangerous ways, on rocks, or by the side of the falls; and these are so many offerings made to the spirits which preside in these places."—See Charlevoix's Letter on the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada.

Father Hennepin too mentions this ceremony; he also says, "We took notice of one barbarian, who made a kind of sacrifice upon an oak at the Cascade of St. Anthony of Padua upon the river Mississippi."—See Hennepin's Voyage into North America.



TO THE HONORABLE W. R. SPENCER.

FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE.

nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas. OVID. ex Ponto, lib. 1. ep. 5.

Thou oft hast told me of the happy hours Enjoyed by thee in fair Italia's bowers, Where, lingering yet, the ghost of ancient wit Midst modern monks profanely dares to flit. And pagan spirits, by the Pope unlaid, Haunt every stream and sing through every shade. There still the bard who (if his numbers be His tongue's light echo) must have talked like thee,— The courtly bard, from whom thy mind has caught Those playful, sunshine holidays of thought, In which the spirit baskingly reclines, Bright without effort, resting while it shines,— There still he roves, and laughing loves to see How modern priests with ancient rakes agree: How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines, And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines.

There still, too, roam those other souls of song, With whom thy spirit hath communed so long, That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought, By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought. But here, alas! by Erie's stormy lake, As, far from such bright haunts my course I take, No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays, No classic dream, no star of other days Hath left that visionary light behind, That lingering radiance of immortal mind, Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene, The humblest shed, where Genius once has been!

All that creation's varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms; Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow, Bright lakes expand, and conquering[1] rivers flow; But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray, This world's a wilderness and man but clay, Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose, Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows. Take Christians, Mohawks, democrats, and all From the rude wigwam to the congress-hall, From man the savage, whether slaved or free, To man the civilized, less tame than he,— 'Tis one dull chaos, one unfertile strife Betwixt half-polished and half-barbarous life; Where every ill the ancient world could brew Is mixt with every grossness of the new; Where all corrupts, though little can entice, And naught is known of luxury but its vice!

Is this the region then, is this the clime For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime, Which all their miracles of light reveal To heads that meditate and hearts that feel? Alas! not so—the Muse of Nature lights Her glories round; she scales the mountain heights, And roams the forests; every wondrous spot Burns with her step, yet man regards it not. She whispers round, her words are in the air, But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there,[2] Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, One ray of mind to thaw them into song.

Yet, yet forgive me, oh ye sacred few, Whom late by Delaware's green banks I knew; Whom, known and loved through many a social eve, 'Twas bliss to live with, and 'twas pain to leave.[3] Not with more joy the lonely exile scanned The writing traced upon the desert's sand, Where his lone heart but little hoped to find One trace of life, one stamp of human kind, Than did I hail the pure, the enlightened zeal, The strength to reason and the warmth to feel, The manly polish and the illumined taste, Which,—mid the melancholy, heartless waste My foot has traversed,—oh you sacred few! I found by Delaware's green banks with you.

Long may you loathe the Gallic dross that runs Through your fair country and corrupts its sons; Long love the arts, the glories which adorn Those fields of freedom, where your sires were born. Oh! if America can yet be great, If neither chained by choice, nor doomed by fate To the mob-mania which imbrutes her now, She yet can raise the crowned, yet civic brow Of single majesty,—can add the grace Of Rank's rich capital to Freedom's base, Nor fear the mighty shaft will feebler prove For the fair ornament that flowers above;— If yet released from all that pedant throng, So vain of error and so pledged to wrong, Who hourly teach her, like themselves, to hide Weakness in vaunt and barrenness in pride, She yet can rise, can wreathe the Attic charms Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, And see her poets flash the fires of song, To light her warriors' thunderbolts along;— It is to you, to souls that favoring heaven Has made like yours, the glorious task is given:— Oh! but for such, Columbia's days were done; Rank without ripeness, quickened without sun, Crude at the surface, rotten at the core, Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er.

Believe me, Spencer, while I winged the hours Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks of flowers, Though few the days, the happy evenings few; So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my charmed soul forgot its wish to roam, And rested there, as in a dream of home. And looks I met, like looks I'd loved before, And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a tone Of kindness there in concord with their own. Yes,—we had nights of that communion free, That flow of heart, which I have known with thee So oft, so warmly; nights of mirth and mind,

Of whims that taught, and follies that refined. When shall we both renew them? when, restored To the gay feast and intellectual board, Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore, I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, I sigh for home,—alas! these weary feet Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.

[1] This epithet was suggested by Charlevoix's striking description of the confluence of the Missouri with the Mississippi.

[2] Alluding to the fanciful notion of "words congealed in northern air."

[3] In the society of Mr. Dennie and his friends, at Philadelphia, I passed the few agreeable moments which my tour through the States afforded me. Mr. Dennie has succeeded in diffusing through this cultivated little circle that love for good literature and sound politics which he feels so zealously himself, and which is so very rarely the characteristic of his countrymen. They will not, I trust, accuse me of illiberality for the picture which I have given of the ignorance and corruption that surround them. If I did not hate, as I ought, the rabble to which they are opposed, I could not value, as I do, the spirit with which they defy it; and in learning from them what Americans can be, I but see with the more indignation what Americans are.



BALLAD STANZAS.

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near. And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world, "A heart that was humble might hope for it here!" It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree.

And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, "Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die!

"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, "And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, "Which had never been sighed on by any but mine!"



A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1]

et remigem cantus hortatur. QUINTILIAN.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.[2] Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

[1] I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. The wind was so unfavorable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.

[2] "At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers."—Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade.



TO THE LADY CHARLOTTE RAWDON.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Not many months have now been dreamed away Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores, Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;— Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves, Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf. There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung On every tuneful accent! proud to feel. That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along. Such breath of passion and such soul of song. Yes,—I have wondered, like some peasant boy Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy, And when he hears the wild, untutored note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!

I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year Had filled its circle, I should wander here In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurled In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tide Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair, And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banished from the garden of their God, Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man, Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span, Can scarcely dream of,—which his eye must see To know how wonderful this world can be!

But lo,—the last tints of the west decline, And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. Among the reeds, in which our idle boat Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes; Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1] Down the steep current, till he fades afar Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light. Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night. Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray, And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way, Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form, Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:—

From the land beyond the sea, Whither happy spirits flee; Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3] Many a blessed Indian roves Through the air on wing, as white As those wondrous stones of light,[4] Which the eye of morning counts On the Apalachian mounts,— Hither oft my flight I take Over Huron's lucid lake, Where the wave, as clear as dew, Sleeps beneath the light canoe, Which, reflected, floating there, Looks as if it hung in air.

Then, when I have strayed a while Through the Manataulin isle,[5] Breathing all its holy bloom, Swift I mount me on the plume Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly Where, beneath a burning sky, O'er the bed of Erie's lake Slumbers many a water-snake, Wrapt within the web of leaves, Which the water-lily weaves.[7] Next I chase the floweret-king Through his rosy realm of spring; See him now, while diamond hues Soft his neck and wings suffuse, In the leafy chalice sink, Thirsting for his balmy drink; Now behold him all on fire, Lovely in his looks of ire, Breaking every infant stem, Scattering every velvet gem, Where his little tyrant lip Had not found enough to sip.

Then my playful hand I steep Where the gold-thread loves to creep, Cull from thence a tangled wreath, Words of magic round it breathe, And the sunny chaplet spread O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head, Till, with dreams of honey blest, Haunted, in his downy nest, By the garden's fairest spells, Dewy buds and fragrant bells, Fancy all his soul embowers In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.

Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes Melt along the ruffled lakes, When the gray moose sheds his horns, When the track, at evening, warns Weary hunters of the way To the wigwam's cheering ray, Then, aloft through freezing air, With the snow-bird soft and fair As the fleece that heaven flings O'er his little pearly wings, Light above the rocks I play, Where Niagara's starry spray, Frozen on the cliff, appears Like a giant's starting tears. There, amid the island-sedge, Just upon the cataract's edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit, at close of day, While, beneath the golden ray, Icy columns gleam below, Feathered round with falling snow, And an arch of glory springs, Sparkling as the chain of rings Round the neck of virgins hung,— Virgins, who have wandered young O'er the waters of the west To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the night away; And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams, Our boat flies light along the leafy shore, Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood, While on its deck a pilot angel stood, And, with his wings of living light unfurled, Coasted the dim shores of another world!

Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,— I never feel a joy so pure and still So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, Or veteran oak, like those remembered well, Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, (For, who can say by what small fairy ties The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?) Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream; Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore, With him, the polished warrior, by thy side, A sister's idol and a nation's pride! When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye Turn to the living hero, while it read, For pure and brightening comments on the dead;— Or whether memory to my mind recalls The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, When guests have met around the sparkling board, And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured; When the bright future Star of England's throne, With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, Winning respect, nor claiming what he won, But tempering greatness, like an evening sun Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;— Whatever hue my recollections take, Even the regret, the very pain they wake Is mixt with happiness;—but, ah! no more— Lady! adieu—my heart has lingered o'er Those vanished times, till all that round me lies, Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,—Vol. i. p. 29.

[2] The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.

[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove."—Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada.

[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones."—Mackenzie's Journal.

[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit."—Morse.

[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.



IMPROMPTU.

AFTER A VISIT TO MRS. ——, OF MONTREAL.

'Twas but for a moment—and yet in that time She crowded the impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, Which waked every feeling at once into flower.

Oh! could we have borrowed from Time but a day, To renew such impressions again and again, The things we should look and imagine and say Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then.

What we had not the leisure or language to speak, We should find some more spiritual mode of revealing, And, between us, should feel just as much in a week As others would take a millennium in feeling.



WRITTEN

ON PASSING DEADMAN'S ISLAND, IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENCE,[1] LATE IN THE EVENING, SEPTEMBER, 1804.

See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, Fast gliding along a gloomy bark? Her sails are full,—though the wind is still, And there blows not a breath her sails to fill!

Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear? The silent calm of the grave is there, Save now and again a death-knell rung, And the flap of the sails with night-fog hung.

There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore Of cold and pitiless Labrador; Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost, Full many a mariner's bones are tost.

Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck, And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, Doth play on as pale and livid a crew, As ever yet drank the churchyard dew.

To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast; By skeleton shapes her sails are furled, And the hand that steers is not of this world!

Oh! hurry thee on-oh! hurry thee on, Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone, Nor let morning look on so foul a sight As would blanch for ever her rosy light!

[1] This is one of the Magdalen Islands, and, singularly enough, is the property of Sir Isaac Coffin. The above lines were suggested by a superstition very common among sailors, who called this ghost-ship, I think, "The Flying Dutchman."



TO THE BOSTON FRIGATE, ON LEAVING HALIFAX FOR ENGLAND,[1]

OCTOBER, 1804.

With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee, To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand Is the last I shall tread of American land. Well—peace to the land! may her sons know, at length, That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength, That though man be as free as the fetterless wind, As the wantonest air that the north can unbind, Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast, If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past, Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,— Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret: May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget; The delight of those evenings,—too brief a delight! When in converse and song we have stolen on the night; When they've asked me the manners, the mind, or the mien, Of some bard I had known or some chief I had seen, Whose glory, though distant, they long had adored, Whose name had oft hallowed the wine-cup they poured; And still as, with sympathy humble but true, I have told of each bright son of fame all I knew, They have listened, and sighed that the powerful stream Of America's empire should pass like a dream, Without leaving one relic of genius, to say, How sublime was the tide which had vanished away! Farewell to the few—though we never may meet On this planet again, it is soothing and sweet To think that, whenever my song or my name Shall recur to their ear, they'll recall me the same I have been to them now, young, unthoughtful, and blest, Ere hope had deceived me or sorrow deprest.

But, Douglas! while thus I recall to my mind The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind, I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine eye As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, That the faint coming breeze would be fair for our flight, And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night. Dear Douglas! thou knowest, with thee by my side, With thy friendship to soothe me, thy courage to guide, There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to freeze, Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, That I could not with patience, with pleasure explore! Oh think then how gladly I follow thee now, When Hope smooths the billowy path of our prow, And each prosperous sigh of the west-springing wind Takes me nearer the home where my heart is inshrined; Where the smile of a father shall meet me again, And the tears of a mother turn bliss into pain; Where the kind voice of sisters shall steal to my heart, And ask it, in sighs, how we ever could part?—

But see!—the bent top sails are ready to swell— To the boat—I am with thee—Columbia, farewell!

[1] Commanded by Captain J. E. Douglas, with whom I returned to England, and to whom I am indebted for many, many kindnesses.



IRISH MELODIES



DEDICATION

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.

It is now many years since, in, a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,

With perfect Sincerity, Your Ladyship's ever attached friend,

THOMAS MOORE.



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 fete 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!