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Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman’s smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Foarless she had tracked his feet
‘l’o this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late)
Felt her love, and mourned her fate.
When he said, “Heavea rest her soul!”
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

AWENGING AND BRIGHT.

AvexcING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin"
On him who the brave sons of Usha betrayed —

For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,f When Ulad's: three champions lay sleeping in gore—

By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wasted these heroes to victory's shore—

We swear to revenge them —no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,

Üur halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch' though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;

Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

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,
“Though 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 words of this song were suggested by the very ancient łrsh story called “Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the sons of "snach,” which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of “Transactions of the Gaelic Society : Dublin"), and upon which it appears that the “Darthula of Mactherson” is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a deso*ting war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. “This story,” says Mr. O'Flanagan, “has been, from time innemorial, held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are. “The death of the children of Touran ." 'The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Damans); and this, “The death of the children of Usnach,” which is a Milesian story.” It will be recollected. that, in the second number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: “Silent, oh Moyle " &c.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a lasting reproach upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the libtral encouragement they so well merit.

t “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

LESBLA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

LEsbia hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
ut what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon
My Nora’s lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every ene,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creima.

Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of beauty’s mould
Presumes to stay where nature placed it.
Oh! my Nora’s gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature’s dress
Is loveliness—
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,
But, when its points are gleaming roun: us
Who can tell if they’re designed
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillowed on my Nora’s heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes—
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh! my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina"
Wit, though bright,
Hath no such light,
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

ONE bumber at parting —though 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.

As 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,

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