Too fast have those young days faded, That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear?— Then, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. Has love to that soul, so tender, Allured by the gleam that shone, Has Hope, like the bird in the story, And, when nearest and most inviting. If thus the sweet hours have flected, Each feeling that once was dearCome, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,- Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 'T was whisper'd balm-'t was sunshine spoken!-I'd live years of grief and pain, To have my long sleep of sorrow broken WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. AIR-O Patrick! fly from me. WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee, Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character bere given of them. * The bird baving got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again, etc.-Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China. And on thy lip such promise hung, I did not dare to doubt thee. I saw thee change, yet still relied, The heart, whose hopes could make it Deserves that thou shouldst break it! When every tongue thy follies named, Or found, in even the faults they blamed, I still was true, when nearer friends Some day, perhaps, thou 'It waken The grief of hearts forsaken. Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee; The few who loved thee once have fled, And they who flatter scorn thee. The smiling there, like light on graves, For all thy guilty splendour! And days may come, thou false one! yet, With smiles had still received thee, 'T is weakness to upbraid thee; Than guilt and shame have made thee. WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. AIR-Paddy Whack. WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping With a pencil of light That illumed all the volume, her WELLINGTON's name! «Hail, Star of my Isle!» said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies, Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. 1 This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk :-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power: but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprochaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin. Who, could he burst Would pine beneath them slowly? At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? Less dear the laurel growing, The brows with victory glowing! Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us! Farewell, Erin!-farewell all Who live to weep our fall! COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. AIR-Lough Sheeling. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last! Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art! Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or-perish there too! "T IS GONE, AND FOR EVER. AIR-Savournah Deelish. the light we saw breaking, 'Tis gone, and for ever, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the deadWhen man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! 'T is gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And, darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee. For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, 1. The Sun-burst was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner. From the heaven of wit Wouldst thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? The living fires that warm us. The careless Youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in :- Fill the bumper, etc. Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mix'd their burning treasure! Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us- O'er that flame within us. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY! DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee; Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 't is thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, In that rebellious but beautiful song, When Erin first rose,» there is, if I recollect right, the following line: The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep! The chain of silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoricamong the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almbaim, where the attending bards, anxious, it possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of silence, and flung themselves among the ranks. See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Morni, in Miss Books's fieliques of Irish Poetry. No VII. If I had consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have been extended beyond the Six Numbers already published; which contain, perhaps, the flower of our National Melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable), I would gladly have left to future poets to glean; and, with the ritual words tibi trado, would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs,' the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. MY GENTLE HARP! AIR-The Coina, or Dirge. My gentle Harp! once more I waken T. M. And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But-like those harps, whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spokenThou hang'st upon the willows still. And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes-that now are turn'd to shame. Then who can ask for notes of pleasure, As ill would suit the swan's decline! But come-if yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy-oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; 1 One gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions, current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task. How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding, AS SLOW OUR SHIP. As slow our ship her foamy track From all the links that bind us; When round the bowl, of vanish'd years We talk, with joyous seeming,With smiles, that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While memory brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us! And when, in other climes, we meet And nought but love is wanting; With some we've left behind us! As travellers oft look back at eve, Still faint behind them glowing,So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind us. IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. AIR-The little Harvest Rose. In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time We can love as in hours of less transport we may:Of our smiles, of our hopes, 't is the gay sunny prime, But affection is warmest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chordæ, Atque vetus Thebe centum jacet obrata portis. JUVENAL. WREATHE THE BOWL. AIR-Noran Kista. WREATHE the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! Should Love amid The wreaths be hid That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, While wine is near- Then wreathe the bowl With flowers of soul, Towards heaven to-night, "T was nectar fed Of old, 't is said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; And man may brew His nectar too, Then bring wit's beam With flowers of soul, Say, why did Time Fill up with sands unsightly, When wine, he knew, And sparkles far more brightly! And, smiling thus, In double tide, And fill both ends for ever! Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES. AIR-Father Quinn. WHENE'ER I see those smiling eyes, All fill'd with hope, and joy, and light, |