DRINK TO HER. DRINK to her, who long 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. Can boast a brighter sphere; What gold could never buy. "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, No charm for him, who lives not free! Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. Happy is he o'er whose decline O'er his watch-fire's fading embers A chain, like that we broke from then. 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, 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, Let it grow where it will, can not flourish alone, To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, 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, In days of boyhood, meet our ear, 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; Music, oh how faint, how weak, 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; In vain the hero's heart hath bled; The sage's tongue hath warned in vain; Weep on-perhaps in after days, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 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, "Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. I SAW thy form in youthful prime, Would steal before the steps of Time, As streams that run o'er golden mines, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines So veiled beneath the simplest guise, If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; 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: he.-What the bank, with verdure glowing, The. But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone; 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, To reflect back her blushes, I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! Since the lovely are sleeping, 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. sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to 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 Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! "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, THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEAS THIS life is all chequered with pleasures and woes, 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. 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, Those leafy gems of morning!"— Says Love," No, no, My fragrant path adorning." The triple leaves, And cries, "Oh! do not sever A type, that blends 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, THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI.* THE valley lay smiling before me, Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, I looked for the lamp which, she told me, I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely, 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, And strangers her valleys profane; I'D MOURN THE HOPES. I'D mourn the hopes that leave 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, Unless joy be shared with thee. My only love, my only dear! And looks round in fear and doubt. '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. Bat coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, 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, 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, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded 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 When my dream of life, from morn till night, But there's nothing half so sweet in life No, there's nothing half so sweet in life 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. 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 BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew- On the bold cliff's bosom cast, 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. |