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While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further 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.
AIR-The Fairy Queen.

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 to his grave,
'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears!
Happy is he o'er whose decline

This image was suggested by the following thought, which oc curs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works:- The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.»

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years: But oh! how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on Victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's check turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we dimm'd his glory's light!
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 bless'd that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE. AIR-Thy Fair Bosom. NIGHT closed 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 crostOh! 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, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise, and give them light to die!-
There is 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?

OH! TIS SWEET TO THINK.
AIR-Thady, you Gander.

On! 't is sweet to think that, wherever we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear;
And that, when we 're far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near!?
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.

1 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 Leverage at this day.-WALKER.

I believe it is Marmontel, who says, Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on a'me, il faut aimer ce que l'on a.s-There are so many matter-offact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy to be the actual and genuine sentiments 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 playfully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having written av ingenious encomium of folly.

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lay;

Kindling former smiles again,
In faded eyes that long have wept!
Like the gale that sighs along

Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours.
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory
lives in Music's breath!

Music! oh! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should feeling ever speak,

When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they;

Oh! 't is only music's strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED..
AIR-The Sixpence.

Ir is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

burn'd,

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd:
Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear

to thee.

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Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

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Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'T is the tear through many a long day wept,
Through a life by his loss all shaded;
T is the sad remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded!

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,
While it shines through our hearts, will improve them;
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them!
And, as buried saints have given perfume

To shrines where they 've been lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

J

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.
AIR-Gage Fane.

"T is believed that this harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, through the bright billow roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep,
Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form!
Still her bosom rose fair- -still her cheek smiled the

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Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

No IV.

Tais Number of The Melodies ought to have appeared much earlier; and the writer of the words is ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication must be imputed chiefly, if not entirely, to him. He finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, but in consequence of a rumour, which has been circulated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to prevent the continuance of the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's enactments against Minstrels; and it is very flattering to find that so much importance is attached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, was of this opinion, that one song like the Hymn to Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Romans than all the philippics of Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times; ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers, and we question if even a Lillibullero would produce any very serious consequences at present. It is needless, therefore, to add, that there is no truth in the report; and we trust that whatever belief it obtained was founded more upon the character of the Government than of the Work.

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The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality and beauty, were, perhaps, in general, too curiously selected, to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The Public are remarkably reserved towards new acquaintances in music, which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why many modern composers introduce none but old friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that persons who love music only by association should be slow in feeling the charms of a new and strange melody; while those who have a quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas, and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart has rapidly translated it into sentiment. After all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popular of our national Airs are also the most beautiful; and it has been our wish, in the present Number, to select from those Melodies only which have long been listened to and admired. The least known in the collection is the Air of Love's Young Dream;» but it is one of those easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly.

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Bury Street, St James's,

Νου. 18 11.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

A18-The Old Woman.

On! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove!

T. M.

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BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE..

AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.

By that lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, 2

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
Here at least, he calmly said,
« Woman ne'er shall find my bed..
Ah! the good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'T was from Kathleen's eyes he flewEyes of most unholy blue!

She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth, nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps,

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave;
Soon the saint (yet, ah! too late)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, Heaven rest her soul!»
Round the lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him,-
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West,
From her own loved Island of Sorrow!

NAY, TELL ME NOT.
AIR-Dennis, don't be threatening.

NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The balm of thy sighs,

The light of thine eyes,

Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me! Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee!

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bathed the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade; While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

AIR-Open the Door.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking,-
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!

This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

2 There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.
AIR-Crooghan a Venee.

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin'
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!-

The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story, called Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Uanach, which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr O'Flanagan (see vol. 1, 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'Fianagan) has been from time immemorial held in bigh repate 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 de Danans); and this, 'The death of the childrea of Usnach, which is a Milesian story." In No 11 of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir Silent, oh Moyle! etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguiue claims to antiquity, which Mr O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

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