Sidor som bilder

Here to the blade I bare
This faithful heart;
Wound deep—thou’lt find that there,
In every pulse thou art.
Yes from thee I’ll bear it all;
If ruin be
The doom that o'er this heart must fall,
*Twert sweet from thee.


I LovE a maid, a mystic maid,
Whose form no eyes but mine can see;
She comes in light, she comes in shade,
And beautiful in both is she.
Her shape in dreams I oft behold,
And oft she whispers in my ear
Such words as when to others told,
Awake the sigh, or wring the tear;--
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.

I find the lustre of her brow,
Come o'er me in my darkest ways;
And feel as if her voice, even now,
Were echoing far off my lays.
There is no scene of joy or wo
But she doth gild with influence bright;
And shed o'er all so rich a glow,
As makes even tears seem full of light;
Then guess, guess, who she,
The lady of my love, may be.


Ask not if still I love,
Too plain these eyes have told thee;
Too well their tears must prove
How near and dear I hold thee.
If, where the brightest shine,
To see no form but thine,
To feel that earth can show
No bliss above thee,_
If this be love, then know -
That thus, that thus, I love thee.

'Tis not in pleasure's idle hour
That thou canst know affection’s power.
No, try its strength in grief or pain;
Attempt, as now, its bonds to sever,
Thou’lt find true love's a chain
That binds for ever !


DEAR 2 yes, though mine no more,
Even this but makes thee dearer;

And love, since hope is o'er,
But draws thee nearer.

Change as thou wilt to me,
The same thy charm must be;
New loves may come to weave
Their witchery o'er thee,
Yet still, though false, believe
That I adore thee, yes, still adore thee.
Thinkst thou that aught but death could end
A tie not falsehood’s self can rend ?
No, when alone, far off I die,
No more to see, no more caress thee,
Even then, my life’s last sigh
Shall be to bless thee, yes, still to bless thee.


UNBIND thee, love, unbind thee, love,
From those dark ties unbind thee;
Though fairest hand the chain hath wove
Too long its links have twined thee.
Away from earth !—thy wings were made
In yon mid sky to hover,
With earth beneath their dove-like shade,
And heaven all radiant over.

Awake thee, boy, awake thee, boy,
Too long thy soul is sleeping;
And thou mayest from this minute's joy
Wake to eternal weeping.
Oh, think, this world is not for thee;
Though hard its links to sever;
Though sweet and bright and dear they be,
Break, or thou’rt lost for ever.


FLEETLY o'er the moonlight snows
Speed we to my lady's bower;
Swift our sledge as lightning goes,
Nor shall stop till morning's hour.
Bright, my steed, the northern star
Lights us from yon jewelled skies;
But, to greet us, brighter far,
Morn shall bring my lady's eyes.

Lovers, lulled in sunny bowers,
Sleeping out their dream of time,
Know not half the bliss that’s ours,
In this snowy, icy clime.
Like yon star that livelier gleams
From the frosty heavens around,
Love himself the keener beams
When with snows of coyness crowned.

Fleet then on, my merry steed,
Bound, my sledge, o'er hill and dale;—
What can match a lover's speed 7
Sce, ’tis daylight, breaking pale !
Brightly hath the northern star
Lit us from yon radiant skies;
But, behold, how brighter far
Yonder shine my lady's eyes | *


BRIGHT moon, that high in heaven art shining,
All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night
Thy own Endymion lay reclining,
And thou wouldst wake him with a kiss of light:-
By all the bliss thy beam discovers, -
By all those visions far too bright for day,
Which dreaming bards and waking lovers
Behold, this night, beneath thy ling’ring ray—
I pray thee, queen of that bright heaven,
Quench not to-night thy love-lamp in the sea,
Till Anthe, in this bower, hath given
Beneath thy beam, her long-vowed kiss to me.
Guide hither, guide her steps benighted,
Ere thou, sweet inoon, thy bashful crescent hide;
Let Love but in this bower be lighted,
. Then shroud in darkness all the world beside.


LoNG years have passed, old friend, since we
First met in life's young day;
And friends long loved by thee and me,
Since then have dropped away;-
But enough remain to cheer us on,
And sweeten, when thus we’re met,
The glass we fill to the many gone,
And the few who're left us yet.

Our locks, old friend, now thinly grow,
And some hang white and chill;
While some, like flowers 'mid Autumn's snow,
Retain youth's color still.
And so, in our hearts, though one by one,
Youth's sunny hopes have set,
Thank Heaven, not all their light is gone—
We’ve some to cheer us yet.
Then here's to thee, old friend, and long
May thou and I thus meet,
To brighten still with wine and song
This short life, ere it fleet.
And still as death comes stealing on,
Let’s never, old friend, forget,
Even while we sigh o'er blessings gone,
How many are left us yet

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'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 locks that we love.

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


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 biest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride.


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 tow’rd 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 rage,
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 fir
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.

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

"This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: “The ople were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, and reli***, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent adminis**ion, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady * great beautv. adorned with jewels and a costly dross, undertook * "noy alone. Trorn one end of the kingdom to the other, with a "*" only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding *** value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch rnade on the minds of all the peoplc, that no atleinot was made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes ****is "-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book x.

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


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 baliny 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."
Then, if some bard, who roams forsaken.
Revive its sost note in passing along,
Oh 1 let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel, when I’m at rest;
Never—oh never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover
To her he flores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.


WE may roam through 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,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home .

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How oft has the Benshee cried, How ost 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?" 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 of Thou, on whose burning tongue Truth, peace, and freedom hung't 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.


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

The clouds passed 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 pathway, When the Lord of the Valley crossed over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's teint 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,

Where alone can remove That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen’s fame.


U ome, 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. '

$hall 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?

* I have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude •o 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.

t 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 pard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the “Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. “con, of the Hundred Fights, sieep in tly grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy virtories.”

: Fox, “normanorum ultiunus.”

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


SILENT, O 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 worki

Sadly, O 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 ring,
Call my spirit to the fields above 1


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

On Lough Neagh’s bank, as the fisherman straja,
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 through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover.|


BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gists fading away,

* 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 supernalural 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 massbell was to be the signal of her release. I found this fancifulfo tion among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that eulightened friend of * land, the late Countess of Moira. + “This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the soarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered soc. cessively, 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 ir. t “Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find an heredito order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe rveda, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania. ** joining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh no Creo ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and solo called bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful soldier."-0. Ho loran's Introduction, &c., part i., chap. 5. It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a sountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, ike the Atlantiof Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fish-rmen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the taller-lesiastical to". ers under the water. Piscatores aqua ilhus turres ecclesiastices.” more patria arcta sunt et alta, necnon et rotundar, rub und's moosoo" sereno tempore conspiciunt, to ortrancis transeuntous, reigue co" admirantibus, frcquenter to Topogr. Hib. dist 3. c. *

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.


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, he 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 tier 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 kong-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain

God prosper the cause !—oh, it can not 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


Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,”
And burned through 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 through the tears
Of a long right of bondage, thy spirit appears.

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And though slavery’s cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, though 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 through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her setters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.f
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.

• The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions: “Apud Kildariam occurrit ignis Sanctæ Brigidae, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sancta mulieresignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a ternpore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus.”—Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. htbern., dist. 2. c. 34.

t Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the Lily, has applied


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;"
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 through dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country ex


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

But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not e'en in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hearthy 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.


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 soulin,
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, 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 through the garden, where heart's-ease was
She culled some, and kissed 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
“That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost l”

• 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 tellw 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 o: of wickedness and yo, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue.

t 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 four hundred years, was now become the land of concord.”—Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison.

t See the Hymn, attributed to Alcaeus, Ev pivprov rXaAt ro {oos popnao—“I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton,” &c.

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