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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.

Fearless she had tracked his feet
To 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, "Heaven rest her soul !"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin

On him who the brave sons of Usna 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,† When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in goreBy the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shoreWe swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, Our 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 Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of "Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin"), and upon which it appears that the Darthula of Macpherson" is founded. 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. "This story," says Mr. O'Flanagan, "has been, from time immemorial, 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 he 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 liberal encouragement they so well merit.

+"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 + Ulster.

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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 houra

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 es 'mid the tears of the cup.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing

FAREWELL!-BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME

THE HOUR.

FAREWELL!-but whenever you welcome the hour,
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your lower,
Then think of the friend who onee 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 can not 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 fill'd!
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.

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,"
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,†
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.

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.

Our Wick.ow Gold Mines, to which this verse allndes, deserves, fear but too well the character here given of them.

"The bird, having got its prize, settled not far of, with the talisman in his mouth The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop t; but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," etc - Arabian Nights.

Of summer wind through some wreathed shell— Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all 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.

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.
Although 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 though 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 through 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 blessed 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 passed 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.

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 thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though 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.

This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story told of a certain noble family n England.

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! ge-

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though 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-though 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 can not wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

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Has been my heart's undoing. Though 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,*
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! th' endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever.

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 through his frame, And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!

*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 duferout 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,

Aud the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin-farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

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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 frame

Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame

It shoots from brimming glasse?

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 bright'ning, 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 ap
To Glory's fount aspiring,

Took nor urn nor eup

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 that bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the Sparks of Soul
Mixed 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.

'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 deadWhen Man, from the 'slumber of ages awaking,

Looked upward, and blessed 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, through all the gross clouds of the world When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,

At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled. 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!

MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumb'ring 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 are turned to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though 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 mixed-half flowers, half chains?

But come-if yet thy frame ean borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me.
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;

"The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancicom Irish to the royal banner

How gayly, even 'mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
'Mid desolation tuneful still !*

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,t 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.

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, thea is the time when affection holds sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, uursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true. In climes full of sunshine, though 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 loath 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 mem'ry brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles 'hen
To those we've left behind us.

Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone choice."—JUVENAL. 1 In that rebellious but beautiful song. "When Erin first rose," there is, if I recollect right, the following line :

"The dark chain of Silence was thrown o'er the deep." 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 Pinn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and dung th mselves among the ranks." See also the "Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni," in Miss Brooke's "Reliques i rish Poetry."

And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flow'ry, 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 trav'llers 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 though, sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise,
And though 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.

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 dark'ning rain,
When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears
Can never shine so bright again.

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