Even now,

tho' youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;

The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd 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 splendour!

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 receiv'd thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd 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 her's 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 illum'd all the 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 watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.

For tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;But oh! there is not

One dishonouring blot

On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name!

And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest ev'n 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 taught me,
I scorn'd 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,*

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 turn'd 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! th' endeavour

From bonds so sweet to sever;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever!

*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.

WHERE IS THE SLAVE?

OH! where's the slave, so lowly,
Condemn'd 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 decay'd 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, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that, whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade

The brows with victory glowing!
We tread the land that bore us,
Our 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 the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torments, 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 call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss,
Still 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,

Look'd upward, and bless'd 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 unfurl'd.*
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, baptiz'd it in blood!
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin! on thee.

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!

Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danc'd 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;-

"The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner.

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 wak'd 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 starr'd dominions:

So we, sages, sit,

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning,

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 chanc'd 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 pilfer'd fire in :