Fearless she had track'd 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 mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul !"
Round the lake like music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!
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 lov'd awaking—
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd 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 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 lov'd island of sorrow!
NAY, TELL ME NOT.
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 balm of thy sighs,
The spell of thine eyes,
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's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,
That drank of the floods,
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those, which the tide
All blush'd 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*
On him, who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!-
For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,+ When Ulad'st three champions lay sleeping in gore
The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach."
Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red-Deirdris Song. + Ulster.
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 wreak'd on the murderer's head!
Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, and affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!
WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.
He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through 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,
That he'll 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.
'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 odour 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 listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint ;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd 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, cloth'd in Piety's vest.
THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES
AND WOES.
THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another, like waves of the deep,-
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awak'd, 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 Grief, that is sister to Joy,
And the short, brilliant Folly, that flashes and dies!
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Thro' fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.*
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and 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
Her flow'rets together, if Wisdom can see
One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!
* Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. i. eleg. 20.
THROUGH Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander'd,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd;
Where'er they pass,
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 Valour, "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 god-like friends,
Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!'
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
*Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand."
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