Islets, so freshly fair, That never hath bird come nigh them, But from his course through air He hath been won down by them;-1 Types, sweet maid, of thee, Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see From Heav'n, without alighting. Lakes, where the pearl lies hid, And caves, where the gem is sleeping, Bright as the tears thy lid Lets fall in lonely weeping. Glens 3, where Ocean comes, To 'scape the wild wind's rancour, And Harbours, worthiest homes Where Freedom's fleet can anchor. Then, if, while scenes so grand, So beautiful, shine before thee, Pride for thy own dear land Should haply be stealing o'er thee, Oh, let grief come first, O'er pride itself victoriousThinking how man hath curst What Heaven had made so glorious! QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND. QUICK! We have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may; For oh, not Orpheus' strain Then, quick! we have but a second, See the glass, how it flushes, And half meets thine, and blushes That thou shouldst delay to sip. 1 In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock." 2" Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A. C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, Shame, oh shame unto thee, If ever thou see'st that day, When a cup or lip shall woo thee, And turn untouch'd away! Then, quick! we have but a second, AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. AND doth not a meeting like this make amends, For all the long years I've been wand'ring away— To see thus around me my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing-what then? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine, We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart, The warmth of a moment like this brings to light. And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceiv'd for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more. 4 So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, And oft even joy is unheeded and lost, For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls.". -O'Halloran. 3 Glengariff. 4 Jours charmans, quand je songe à vos heureux instans, Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone, To meet in some world of more permanent bliss, For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this. ' But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart, The more we should welcome and bless them the more; They're ours, when we meet,—they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink, Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain, That, fast as a feeling but touches one link, Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain. THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone, As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er Beside a fountain, one sunny day, He turn'd, but, lo, like a startled bird, Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. One night, still haunted by that bright look, Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite. "Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried A voice, low whisp'ring by his side, 1 The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend Mr. Washington Irving, in his Bracebridge Hall, vol. i. p. 213. The sincere pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend, is much enhanced by the reflection that he is too good an American, to have admitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him birth, have been long such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain. 2" Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had acci dentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."-Leland, vol. ii. To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whisper'd o'er me, As the threshold I crost, There was ruin before me, If I lov'd, I was lost. Love came, and brought sorrow I would drain it with pleasure, You, who call it dishonour To bow to this flame, If you've eyes, look but on her, For growing near earth? No-Man for his glory While the Monarch but traces THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART. THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away. 1 These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe." As if to feed, with their soft fire, The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. But soon the West no longer burn'd, Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew; And, when to gaze again I turn'd, The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. As if her light and heav'n's were one, The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone, As from a parting spirit, came.1 Who ever lov'd, but had the thought That he and all he lov'd must part? Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom? "Oh light of youth's resplendent day! "Must ye then lose your golden bloom, "And thus, like sunshine, die away?" SING-SING-MUSIC WAS GIVEN. SING-sing-Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks, But Love from the lips his true archery wings; And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks, At once sends it home to the heart when she sings. Then sing-sing- Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while Souls here, like planets in Heaven, By harmony's laws alone are kept moving. THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET. THOUGH humble the banquet to which I invite thee, Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can com mand: Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee, And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand. And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. "Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion Can turn from the path a pure conscience ap proves; Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves. 'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat, And, with this, though of all other treasures bereav'd, The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er receiv'd. "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake Then, come,-if a board so untempting hath him." power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine; And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine. Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE. TIME THE NINTH CENTURY. TO-MORROW, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low! The morning star is up, But there's wine still in the cup, WHAT life like that of the bard can be,- The world's to him like some play-ground, Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, They tell us, in the moon's bright round, And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, Can lend them life, this life beyond, go; We'll take another quaff, ere we go. And fix them high, in Poesy's sky, - |