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."