[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 Naiads 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 Glena'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.