O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, A chain like that we broke from then. May we pledge that horn in triumph round!* But oh! how bless'd that hero's sleep, AFTER THE BATTLE. AIR-Thy Fair Bosom. NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd- The last sad hour of freedom's dream, THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. AIR-Gage Fane. '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, through the bright billow roved, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved. But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep. And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets 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 cheek smiled the same While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the frame; And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings!* 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 be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away! LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. AIR-The Old Woman. OH! the days are gone when beauty bright When my dream of life, from morn till night, New hope may bloom, Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear And, at every close, she blush'd to hear ther, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiasti- "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. On memory's waste! *This thought was suggested by an ingenions de sign, prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin. That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina! She sings the wild song of her own native plains He had lived for his love, for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams 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! "TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR-Groves of Blarney. 'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one Thy leaves o'er the bed, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LIT- AIR-Sheela na Guira. OH! had we some bright little isle of our own, SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. And the bee banquets on through a whole year AIR-Open the Door. 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, of flowers; FAREWELL!-but, whenever you welcome the hour AIR-Cuishlih ma Chree. COME O'er the sea, Maiden! with me, Mine through 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, Come wherever the wild wind blows, But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Is not the sea Land for courts and chains alone? But, on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own! That awakens the night-song of mirth in your All earth forgot, and all heaven around us!No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us. 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 brighten'd 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 bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, "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 fill'd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd You may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Then, come o'er the sea, Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows! But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED? AIR-Sly Patrick. HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded, That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear ?Then, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. Has love to that soul, so tender, Been like our Lagenian mine,* Where sparkles of golden splendour All over the surface shineBut, if in pursuit we go deeper, Allured by the gleam that shone, Ah! false is the dream of the sleeper, Like Love, the bright ore is gone. Has Hope, like the bird in the story, t * Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them. "The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew On branch after branch alighting, If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, Each feeling that once was dear !— Come, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. MY GENTLE HARP! AIR-The Coina or Dirge. My gentle Harp! once more I waken And now in tears we meet again. And yet, since last thy chord resounded, With hopes that now are turn'd to shame. Then who can ask for notes of pleasure, As ill would suit the swan's decline! One breath of joy-oh, breathe for me, How sweet the answer Echo makes When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes; Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, 'Tis when the sign in youth sincere, The sigh that's breathed for one to hear, Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last! Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same, Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss, Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of thisThrough the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too! |