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DRINK TO HER.

DRINK to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,

It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold ccd never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,

When Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her, "Which might pass ?" She answered, "He, who could." With golden key Wealth thought To pass-but 'twould not do; While Wit a diamond brought,

Which cut his bright way through. So here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home

Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome,

That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Though woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her, who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

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"Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the ingle moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more benefical than they all put together."-Whiston's Theory, &c.

In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, "Non mille, quod absens."

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

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,

Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

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

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!

Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound.But oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings showed the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimmed, for ever crost-
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honor's lost?
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watched, till morning's bean
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;-
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

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Thy rival was honored, while thou wert wronged and scorned,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorned; She wooed me to temples, while thou layst hid in caves, Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves, Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from thee. They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frailHadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had looked less pale. They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains— Oh! foul is the slander-no chain could that soul subdue→→ Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!!

"The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purpose In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."-Walker. † Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland. "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."-St. P 2 Cor., iii. 17.

"TIS SWEET TO THINK.

Trs sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustomed to cling,

Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing,
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
Twere a shame, when flwers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

"Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

ON MUSIC.

WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,

In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again

In faded eyes that long have wept.

Like the gale, that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours;
Filled with balm, the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only music's strain

Can sweetly sooth and not betray.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warned in vain;
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again.

Weep on-perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruined Isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?

I believe it is Marmontel who says, "Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on sime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a." There are so many matter-of-fact peopie, who take such jeur d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them. that they compel one. in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them that Democritus was not the worse physiologist, for having playfully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus, in any degree, the less wise, for having written an ingenious encomium of folly

""Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate

Your web of discord wove;

And while your tyrants joined in hate,

You never joined in love.

But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, And man profaned what God had given; Till some were heard to curse the shrine, Where others knelt to heaven !"

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.• It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
"Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;

"Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Syren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-ma den's form.
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smiled the same,
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell.
Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay

Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er looked more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So veiled beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,
And that, which charmed all other eyes,
Seemed worthless in thy own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,

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

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

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite in scription of Shenstone, "Heu! quant minus est cum reliquis ver sari quam meminisse!"

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. He.-WHAT the bee is to the flow'ret,

When he looks for hors-dew,

Through the leaves that close embower 1:
That, my love, I'll be to you.

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

The. 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.

'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?

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

Ar the inid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly o 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

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 through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,"

Faintly answering still the notes that once, were so dear.

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,
h well might deceive such hearts as ours."

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

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 teint.
"Who would have thought," the urchin cries,
"That Love could so well, so gravely sguise
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 guast,
If he came to them clothed in Piety's act.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEAS
URES AND WOES.

THIS life is all chequered 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, Through 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 flow'rets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves, From her fountain Divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

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As emeralds seen

Through 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!"

"Proposito florem prætulit officio."-PROPERT., lib. L, eleg It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that spe cies of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her na tional emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes repre sented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil of

three-colored grass in her hand.

There was a time, falsest of women,

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THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.*

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, though 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.

⚫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 sabduing 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 sne detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his expital of Ferns." The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of Ruark, while Mac Murchard fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

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

When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to wrong thee in thought! While now-oh degenerate daughter

Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!

And through 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.

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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 only love, my only dear!
And though 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.

"Steals silently to Morna's grove."-See, in Mr. Bunting's col lection, a poem translated from the Irish, by the late John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, hono.able, and exemplary.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing :

Bat coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;-
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.

THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers: There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More formed to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,

And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink

Dh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!

Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The Standard of Green

In front would be seen

Oh, my life on your faith! were you summoned this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,

And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts, which have suffered too much to forget;
And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light, to the last

And thus, Erin, my country, though broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

On the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.

This sorg was written for a fête in honor of the Prince of Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

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Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee. They tell us that Love in his fairy bower Had two blush-roses, of birth divine; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, But bathed the other with mantling wine. Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods

Distilled by the rainbow, decline and fade; While those which the tide

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BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.
By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,t
Where the cliff hangs high and steep
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

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

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;

This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories relied o St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

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