AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
AT the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye,
And I think that, if spirits can steal from the region of air
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love, is remember'd, even in the sky!
Then I sing the wild song which once 'twas rapture to hear,
When our voices, both mingling, breath'd, like one, on the ear;
And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the kingdom of
souls,*
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
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 crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it,
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth!
But oh-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die midst the tears of the cup.
As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But time, like a pitiless master,
Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours,
And never does 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.
"There are countries," says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo."
How brilliant the sun looked in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright-
Oh! trust me, the farewell of drinking
Should be like the farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, 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 wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
THE YOUNG MAY MOON.
THE young May moon is heaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove.
While 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
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,
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 lov'd 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.*
THE valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd,
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!
I flew to her chamber-'twas lonely
As if the lov'd 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 wak'd it so often,
Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of woman!
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro' a million of foemen,
Who dar'd but to doubt thee in thought!
While now-oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame;
And, thro' ages of bondage and slaughter,
Thy country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already, the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane;
They come to divide to dishonour,
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.
* 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 enslaving us. The king of Leinster had conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested. Mac Murchad 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 Mac Murchad filed to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.
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 through 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 lov'd 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 welcom'd 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 path-way of pain-
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring 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 murmur'd "I wish he were here!"
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