AVENGING AND BRIGHT. And, when once the kiss is over, AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin He.- Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 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, 2 When Ulad's 3 three champions lay sleeping in gore By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling, We swear to revenge them!-nojoy shall be tasted, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head. Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all! WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. He.-WHAT the bee is to the flow'ret, When he looks for honey-dew, She. What the bank, with verdure glowing, She.-But they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly, when sweets are gone; The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the "Darthula of Macpherson" is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been, from time immemorial, held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are,' The death of the children of Touran ;' The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha If sunny banks will wear away, 'Tis but right, that bees and brooks Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, 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 Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light, and with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.1 Thus many, like me, who in youth should 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 These flow'rets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves, From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me. 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 oft, if spirits can steal from the regions 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. "Proposito florem prætulit officio." PROPERT. lib. i. eleg. 20. 2 It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tiptoes, and a trefoil of three-coloured grass in her hand. |