part 1

, chap. 5.

[3] It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water.

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.[1]

Silent, oh 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 world?

Sadly, oh 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 ringing, Call my spirit to the fields above?

[1] 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 supernatural 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 mass-bell was to be the signal of her release,--I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, 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. Shall 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? 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!

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

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, be 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 tear 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 long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause!--oh, it cannot 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!

BELIEVE ME IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, 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.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1] And burn'd thro' 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 thro' the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.

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

[1] The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions.

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 could 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, Tho' 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.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.[1]

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;[2] 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 thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

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

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

[1] 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 tells 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 gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

[2] 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 400 years, was now become the land of concord." _Lloyd's "State Worthies_," art. _The Lord Grandison_.

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turned, To look at orbs, that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burned. But _too_ far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame; Much more dear That mild sphere. Which near our planet smiling came; Thus, Mary, be but thou my own; While brighter eyes unheeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone, That bless my home and guide my way.

The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meet. Illumined all the pale flowers, Like hope upon a mourner's cheek. I said (while The moon's smile Played o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,) "The moon looks "On many brooks, "The brook can see no moon but this;"[1] And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but _one_, _One_ Mary in the world for me.

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

ILL OMENS.

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 soul in, 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,[1] 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 thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing, She culled some, and kist 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 meaning), "That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

[1] An emblem of the soul.

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![1] 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 wondering world shall weep!

[1] "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."--_Walker_.

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 watcht, till morning's beam 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?

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis 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 flowers 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.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.[1]

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way, Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turned; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And blest even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

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 lay'st 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 frail-- Hadst 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![2]

[1] Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

[2] "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"--_St. Paul's Corinthians_ ii., l7.

ON MUSIC.

When thro' 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, Tho' 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 soothe, and not betray.

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.[1]

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, thro' 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 we 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!

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

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; And who often, at eve, thro' 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-maiden'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 uttering 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.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! 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.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Tho' he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one lov'd name.

No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odor fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.[1]

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile thro' 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-- Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But, tho' '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! Tho' 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 tho' broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams thro' each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

[1] This song 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.

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 wondering ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave?

"'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!"

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's lid that seldom rises; Few its looks, but every one, 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 Creina.

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 round 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.

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!

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.[1]

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2] Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young St. 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; 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.

[1] This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

[2] There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But 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.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The spell of those eyes, The balm of thy sighs, 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 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 Of ruby had dyed All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! 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.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1] 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,[2] When Ulad's[3] three champions lay sleeping in gore-- By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore--

We 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! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

[1] The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach." 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.

[2] "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_.

[3] Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

HE.

What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Thro' the leaves that close embower it, That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

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

SHE.

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.

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, "It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

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 tint. "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise "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 guest, If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES

This life is all checkered 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, Thro' 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 flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

Thro' Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valor wandered, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright A thousand arrows squandered. Where'er they pass, A triple grass[1] Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming. As softly green As emeralds seen Thro' 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!" Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond May last the bond, They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather. May Love, as twine His flowers divine. Of thorny falsehood weed 'em; May Valor ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom! Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erin's native Shamrock!

[1] It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand.

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To 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 I 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 thro' the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls,[1] Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

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

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

One bumper at parting!--tho' 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.

'Tis 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, It dies mid the tears of the cup.

'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?

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake!--the heavens look bright, my dear, 'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake!--till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, Or, in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

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, "Tho' 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 SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.[1]

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, tho' 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.

There _was_ a time, falsest of women, When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, thro' a million of foe-men, Who dared but to wrong thee _in thought_! While now--oh degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame! And thro' 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.

[1] 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 subduing 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 she detested to a lover she adored. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-- The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMurchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

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

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on thro' a whole year of flowers; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, We should love, as they loved in the first golden time; The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. With affection as free From decline as the bowers, And, with hope, like the bee, Living always on flowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.

FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour. That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once 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 cannot 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 filled! 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.

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. Altho' 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 tho' 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 thro' 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 blest 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 past 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.

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 own love, my only dear!

And tho' 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.

COME O'ER THE SEA.

Come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not; 'Tis life where _thou_ art, 'tis death where thou art not. Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Come wherever the wild wind blows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Was not the sea Made for the Free, Land for courts and chains alone? Here we are slaves, But, on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own. No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us-- Then come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows; Seasons may roll, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes.

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,[1] 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,[2] 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.

[1] Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.

[2] "The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," etc.--"_Arabian Nights_."

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.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell-- Each secret winding, each inmost feeling Of 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.

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 the change, yet still relied, Still clung with hope the fonder, And thought, tho' 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.

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! go,-- Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken From pleasure's dream, to know The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, tho' 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--tho' 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 cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping, For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of light That illumed the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies-- "Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, "I've watched for some glory like thine to arise. "For, tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, "And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame;-- "But oh! there is not "One dishonoring blot "On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, "The grandest, the purest, even _thou_ hast yet known; "Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, "Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. "At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, "Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, "And, bright o'er the flood "Of her tears and her blood, "Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Tho' 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,[1] 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! the endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

[1] 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 different 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, And the foe we hate before us.

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

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,-- Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!

'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 dead-- When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Looked upward, and blest 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, thro' all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.[1] 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.

[1] "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.

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

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 flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when thro' the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. 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 brightening, 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 up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup 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 the bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mixt 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.

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,[1] 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.

[1] 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 Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks."

MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumbering 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 art turned to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Tho' 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 mixt--half flowers, half chains?

But come--if yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; How gaily, even mid gloom surrounding, Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill-- Like Memnon's broken image sounding, Mid desolation tuneful still!

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, then is the time when affection holds sway With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

In climes full of sunshine, tho' 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 loathe 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 memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us.

And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle, or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, 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 travellers 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 tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise, And tho' 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.

WREATH THE BOWL.

Wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us. Should Love amid The wreaths be hid, That joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear, While wine is near, We'll drown him if he stings us, Then, wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.

'Twas nectar fed Of old, 'tis said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; And man may brew His nectar too, The rich receipt's as follows: Take wine like this, Let looks of bliss Around it well be blended, Then bring wit's beam To warm the stream, And there's your nectar, splendid! So wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.

Say, why did Time His glass sublime Fill up with sands unsightly, When wine, he knew, Runs brisker through, And sparkles far more brightly? Oh, lend it us, And, smiling thus, The glass in two we'll sever, Make pleasure glide In double tide, And fill both ends for ever! Then wreath the bowl With flowers of soul The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us.

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 darkening rain, When once 'tis touched by sorrow's tears Can ever shine so bright again.

IF THOU'LT BE MINE.

If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air, Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet; Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair, Or in Hope's sweet music sounds _most_ sweet, Shall be ours--if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, A voice divine shall talk in each stream; The stars shall look like worlds of love, And this earth be all one beautiful dream In our eyes--if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, Like streams, that come from heavenward hills, Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie To be bathed by those eternal rills, Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

All this and more the Spirit of Love Can breathe o'er them, who feel his spells; That heaven, which forms his home above, He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, As thou'lt own.--if thou wilt be mine, love!

TO LADIES' EYES.

To Ladies' eyes around, boy, We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, 'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, The countless eyes that brighten This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup--where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy, They seem but given, they seem but given, As shining beacons, solely, To light to heaven, to light to heaven. While some--oh! ne'er believe them-- With tempting ray, with tempting ray, Would lead us (God forgive them!) The other way, the other way. But fill the cup--where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all!

In some, as in a mirror, Love seems portrayed, Love seems portrayed, But shun the flattering error, 'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. Himself has fixt his dwelling In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips--but this is telling-- So here they go! so here they go! Fill up, fill up--where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all!

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

Forget not the field where they perished, The truest, the last of the brave, All gone--and the bright hope we cherished Gone with them, and quenched in their grave!

Oh! could we from death but recover Those hearts as they bounded before, In the face of high heaven to fight over That combat for freedom once more;--

Could the chain for an instant be riven Which Tyranny flung round us then, No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven, To let Tyranny bind it again!

But 'tis past--and, tho' blazoned in story The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

Far dearer the grave or the prison, Illumed by one patriot name, Than the trophies of all, who have risen On Liberty's ruins to fame.

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

They may rail at this life--from the hour I began it, I found it a life full of kindness and bliss; And, until they can show me some happier planet, More social and bright, I'll content me with this. As long as the world has such lips and such eyes, As before me this moment enraptured I see, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them, They've none, even there, more enamored than I. And as long as this harp can be wakened to love, And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, They may talk as they will of their Edens above, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor, At twilight so often we've roamed thro' the dew, There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender, And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. But tho' they were even more bright than the queen Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea, As I never those fair young celestials have seen, Why--this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could spare, Oh! think what a world we should have of it here, If the haters of peace, of affection and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

Oh for the swords of former time! Oh for the men who bore them, When armed for Right, they stood sublime, And tyrants crouched before them: When free yet, ere courts began With honors to enslave him, The best honors worn by Man Were those which Virtue gave him. Oh for the swords, etc.

Oh for the kings who flourished then! Oh for the pomp that crowned them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them. When, safe built on bosoms true, The throne was but the centre, Round which Love a circle drew, That Treason durst not enter. Oh for the kings who flourished then! Oh for the pomp that crowned them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them!

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.[1]

"Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see; And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."

THE LADY.

"Oh! Father, send not hence my bark, Thro' wintry winds and billows dark: I come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer; Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned; The winds blew fresh, the bark returned; But legends hint, that had the maid Till morning's light delayed, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

[1] In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the "_Acta Sanctorum Hiberniae_," we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us How Time deals out his treasures? The golden moments lent us thus, Are not _his_ coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them o'er could add to their blisses, I'd number each glorious second: But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses, Too quick and sweet to be reckoned. Then fill the cup--what is it to us How time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, Till Care, one summer's morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers, A dial, by way of warning. But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, As long as its light was glowing, Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on, And how fast that light was going. So fill the cup--what is it to us How Time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus, Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark-- Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say, "Tho' death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are, less false than they, Whose smiling wrecked thy hopes and thee." Sail on, sail on,--thro' endless space-- Thro' calm--thro' tempest--stop no more: The stormiest sea's a resting place To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or--if some desert land we meet, Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweet,-- Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

THE PARALLEL.

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart-- If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling" Could make us thy children, our parent thou art,

Like thee doth our nation lie conquered and broken, And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down."[2]

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning, Die far from the home it were life to behold; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Remember the bright things that blest them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee "the Forsaken,"[3] Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance--yet came there the morrow, That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow, Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City[4] Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips; And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover,[5] The Lady of Kingdoms[6] lay low in the dust.

[1] These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

[2] 1 "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."--_Jer_. xv. 9.

[3] "Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken."--_Isaiah_, lxii. 4.

[4] "How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!"-- _Isaiah_, xiv. 4.

[5] "Thy pomp is brought down to the grave . . . and the worms cover thee."--_Isaiah_, xiv. 11.

[6] "Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms."--_Isaiah_, xlvil. 5.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in, Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it; Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour, A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature's enchantment, been filled With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distilled To enliven such hearts as are here brought together. Then drink of the cup--you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one-- Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful, This philter in secret was first taught to flow on, Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful. And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame, Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden-- Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden. So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen! Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night, And I'll tell you your fortune truly As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light, To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition,--the image of him Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind, So fondly around you he'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find 'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion-- An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise, As in destiny's