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While you add to your garland the Olive of It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, Spain!

If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights,

Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!
And oh! may his tomb want a tier and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find

That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,

And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear

That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

ERIN, OH ERIN.

LIKE the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,1

And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm, Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,

light,

May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright, And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws, Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

God prosper the cause!-oh, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain; Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die! The finger of glory shall point where they lie;

The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions:-"Apud Kildariam occurrit ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod ex. tingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ

Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm. Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears. The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising, when others are set; And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee

yet.

Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus."-Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern, dist. 2. c. 34.

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1 Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the Lily, has applied this image to a still more important object.

2 We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and, perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us," were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.

OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's

dart ;3

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have pour'd the full tideof a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country ! - her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;

O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their

sires;

And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,

Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,

He should try to forget, what he never can heal : Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd; While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword. 4

3 It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord.”—Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison.

4 See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, Ey grov zλadı so Eidos poenow—"I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius, and Aristogiton," &c.

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1 "Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together." Whiston's Theory, &c.

Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth whom she treasur'd her heart and
her soul in,

Had promised to link the last tie before noon ; And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly 3, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush'd him- he fell, alas! never to rise: "Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces,

"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease

was growing,

She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fall'n dew; And a rose, farther on, look'd so tempting and

glowing,

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too : But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was

lost:

"Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),

"That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!"

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,

Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years:

we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, Non mille, quod absens.

2 This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: "The In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon."

3 An emblem of the soul.

But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on Victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers,

Where we tam'd his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!!

Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound: But oh, how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE.

NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost-
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valour's task, mov'd slowly by, While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam Should rise and give them light to die. There's yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ;If death that world's bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this?

"TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove, We are sure to find something blissful and dear,

"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.

2 I believe it is Marmontel who says, "Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a."-There are so many matter-of-fact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments

And that, when we're far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 2 The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing, It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, "Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're change

able too,

And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.3

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;

Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;

of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the worse physiologist, for having play. fully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus, in any degree, the less wise, for having written an ingenious encomium of folly.

3 Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

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