Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
Young Novice; to him all thy orisons rise:
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,
And angels themselves would admit such a guest,
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH
PLEASURES AND WOES.

AIR-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the
Brim.

Tais life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another, like waves of the deep,Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-feathers 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 grief that is sister to Joy,

And the short brilliant Folly that flashes and dies!

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of play,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.' Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and 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 Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see One bright drop or two, that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 't is sufficient for me!

No V.

Ir is but fair to those who take an interest in this Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of the series.

It is not so much from a want of materials, and still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task to a close; but we feel so proud, for our country's sake and our own, of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave some wish for more. In speaking thus I allude entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attraction of these Volumes; and, though we have still many popular and

'Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. 1, eleg. 20.

delightful Melodies to produce,' yet it cannot be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, and, however feebly my words have kept pace with the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attractive, and, in the imperial attitude, stantes mori, before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same.

We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who put their relatives to death when they become feeble.

Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne,

December, 1813.

T. M.

A type that blends

Three god-like friends,

Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!»

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock' Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So, firmly fond
May last the bond
They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall
One drop of gall

On Wit's celestial feather!
May Love, as shoot
His flowers and fruit,
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!
May Valour ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

Oh, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock! Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

Among these is Savourna Deelish, which I have hitherto only withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all ears and bearts, for me to think of producing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number.

2 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. HoPE, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her band..

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
AIR-Molly, my dear.

Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we loved when life was warm in thine

eye,

And I think that 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!

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on

the ear,

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh, my love! 't is thy voice from the kingdom of souls,'

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.
AIR-Moll Roe in the Morning.

ONE bumper at parting!-though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure has in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute

It dies, do we know half its worth!
But fill-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They 're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

1 There are countries, says Montaigne, where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields, and that it is those souls. repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo..

This evening, we saw the sun sinking
In waters his glory made bright-
Oh! trust me, our farewell of drinking
Should be like that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim-
So fill up!-let's shine, at our parting,
In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up;
'T was born on the bosom of pleasure,
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup!

"T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

AIR-Groves of Blarney.

"T is the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle

The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?

THE YOUNG MAY-MOON. AIR-The Dandy 0! THE young May-moon is beaming, love! The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love!

Steals silently to Morna's Grove.

See a translation from the Irish, in Mr Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, bonourable, and exemplary.

These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. The King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni. yet it could not restrain his pass.on. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punc

302

There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they loved in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there!

With affection, as free

From decline as the bowers,
And with Hope, like the bee,

Living always on flowers,

Our life should resemble a long day of light,

And our death come on, holy and calm as the night!

tually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.-The Monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Raark, while Mac Murchad Bed to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

Such, adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), is the variable and tickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy..

FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

AIR-Moll Roone.

FAREWELL!—but, whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return-not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his path-way of painBut he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles!Too bless'd, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, I wish he were here! Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear, Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'dYou may break, you may ruin the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.
AIR-Yellow Wat and the Fox.

Оn! doubt me not-the season
Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
Although this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,--
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not-the season

Is o'er when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal Reason

Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.
And though my lute no longer

May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee through many a garden roves,

And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not-the season
Is o'er when Folly kept me free,
And now the vestal Reason
Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.'
AIR-Were I a Clerk.
You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,

This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story, told of a certain noble family in England.

When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length, in sadness, said,

. We must seek our fortune on other plains;
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.

They roam'd a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees. To-night, said the youth, « we 'll shelter there; The wind blows cold, the hour is late So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,

And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate.

Now, welcome, Lady!» exclaim'd the youth,— This castle is thine, and these dark woods all.. She believed him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! — And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves

What William the stranger woo'd and wed; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.
AIR-The Rose-Tree.

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light!

'T is not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
T is not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!

And, though the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
More safely without its ray.

Far better lights shall win me

Along the path I 've yet to roam,The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted

The traveller, at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted,

And looks round, in fear and doubt.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless star-light on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds!

No. VI.

IN presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence have enriched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command unexampled in the history of poets and musicians.