No. IX.

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

AIR-The Captivating Youth.

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine! Ilow fair thou art let others tell,

While but to feel how fair is mine!

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,

And long may light around thee smile,

As soft as on that evening fell

When first I saw thy fairy isle!

Thou wert too lovely then for one

Who had to turn to paths of careWho had through vulgar crowds to run, And leave thee bright and silent there:

No more along thy shores to come,

But on the world's dim ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost!

Far better in thy weeping hours

To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like Sorrow's veil on Beauty's brow. For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But, in thy shadows, seem'st a place Where weary man might hope to rest

Might hope to rest, and find in thee

A gloom like Eden's, on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way!

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!

AIR-The Song of the Woods.

'T was one of those dreams that by music are brought,
Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
To which he had sung Erin's bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle to Glena's wooded shore.

He listen'd-while high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire.

It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills where the soul of the strain,
That had ceased upon earth, was awaking again!

Oh forgive if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud spirit within him proclaim-

« Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

<«< Even so, though thy memory should now die away, 'T will be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answering future, thy name and thy song!

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

AIR-Cummilum.

FAIREST! put on awhile

These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume,

At golden sunset, hover O'er such scenes of bloom

As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays,

And fearlessly meets the ardour
Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With but her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs,
In grace majestic frowning-
Like some warrior's brows,

That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets so freshly fair

That never bath bird come nigh them, But, from his course through air,

Hath been won downward by them—1 Types, sweet maid of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see

From heaven, without alighting.

Lakes where the pearl lies hid,

And caves where the diamond's sleeping,

Bright as the gems that lid

Of thine lets fall in weeping.

Glens,3 where Ocean comes,

To 'scape the wild wind's rancour,

And harbours, worthiest homes
Where Freedom's sails could anchor.

Then if, while scenes so grand,

So beautiful, shine before thee,

In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth) De 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. 1994, by Gill ert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls. »—O`HAL

LOBAN.

' Glengariff.

315

Pride for thy own dear land

Should haply be stealing o'er thee; Oh! let grief come first,

O'er pride itself victoriousTo think how man hath curst

What Heaven had made so glorious!

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND. AIR-Paddy Snap.

QUICK! We have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may, For Time, the churl hath beckon'd,

And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that 's flying,

For oh! not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.

Then quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young Hebe's lip,

And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,

If ever thou seest the day,

When a cup or a lip shall woo thee,
And turu untouch'd away!

Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.
AIR-Unknown.

AND doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I 've been wandering 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,
In gazing on those we 've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng.
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,

When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced,
The warmth of a meeting like this brings to light.

And thus, as in Memory's bark we shall glide

To visit the scenes of our boyhood anewThough oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining throughYet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,

That once made a garden of all the gay shore,

As he, by moonlight, went wandering o'er

The golden sands of that island shore,

A foot-print sparkled before his sight,
'T was the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite.

Beside a fountain, one sunny day,

As, looking down on the stream, he lay,
Behind him stole two eyes of light,

And he saw in the clear wave the Mountain Sprite.

He turn'd-but lo! like a startled bird,
The Spirit fled-and he only heard
Sweet music, such as marks the flight
Of a journeying star, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, pursued by that dazzling look,
The youth, bewilder'd, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,
Drew the fairy form of the Mountain Sprite.

Jours charmans, quand je songe à vos heureux instans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans ;
Et mon cœur enchanté sur sa rive fleurie,
Respire encore l'air pur du matin de la vie.

The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend, Mr Washington Irving, in bis Bracebridge Hall, vol. i, p. 213. The pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend, is 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 long been such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain.

«Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,» cried A gentle voice, whispering by his side, << Now turn and see,»-here the youth's delight Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

« Of all the Spirits of land and sea,>> Exclaim'd he then, « there is none like thee; And oft, oh oft, may thy shape alight

In this lonely arbour, sweet Mountain Sprite.>>

AS VANQUISH'D ERIN.

AIR-The Boyne Water.

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,

Had dropp'd his loaded quiver.

«Lie hid,» she cried, « ye venom'd darts,
Where mortal eye may shun you;
Lie hid-for oh! the stain of hearts
That bled for me is on you.»

But vain her wish, her weeping vain-
As Time too well hath taught her:
Each year the fiend returns again,

And dives into that water:

And brings triumphant, from beneath,

His shafts of desolation,

And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,

Throughout her maddening nation.

Alas! for her who sits and mourns,
Even now beside that river-
Unwearied still the fiend returns,
And stored is still his quiver.

« When will this end? ye Powers of Good!»
She weeping asks for ever;

But only hears, from out that flood,

The demon answer, « Never!>>

DESMOND'S SONG.

AIR-Unknown.

By the Feal's wave benighted,
Not a star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.

Some voice whisper'd o'er me,
As the threshold I cross'd,
There was ruin before me,

If I loved, I was lost.

Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally 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 dependants, 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. z.

This air has been already so successfully supplied with words by Mr Bayly, that I should have left it untouched, if we could bave spared so interesting a melody out of our collection.

Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
T would be welcome again.
Were misery's full measure
Pour'd out to me now,

I would drain it with pleasure,
So the Hebe were thou.

You who call it dishonour
To bow to this flame,
If you 've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?

Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

No-Man, for his glory,
To history flies;
While Woman's bright story

Is told in her eyes.
While the monarch but traces

Through mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Ranks next to divine!

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

AIR-Coolon Das.

THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love-as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away!
No-beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far :
It is not that cheek—'t is the soul dawning clear
Through its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear-
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to the more, because heaven is there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.
AIR-I wish I was on yonder Hill.

I WISH I was by that dim lake,'
Where sinful souls their farewells take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In Death's cold shadow, ere they die.

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, an I was the resort of penitents and pilgrims, from almost every country in Europe.

It was, as the same writer tells us, one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is from strange association wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes. Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland,

NATIONAL AIRS.

No. I.

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.'

Spanish Air.

« A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, « I'll build in this garden-the thought is divine!» Her temple was built, and she now only wanted

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent, But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. «Oh! never,» she cried, « could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim! But yon little god upon roses reclining,

We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him.» So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: «Farewell,» said the sculptor, «you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship, and took away Love.»

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER. Portuguese Air.

FLOW on, thou shining river;

But, ere thou reach the sea,
Seek Ella's bower, and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee.
And tell her thus, if she 'll be mine,
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.
But if, in wandering thither,

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there.
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
Her lone and loveless charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,

Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ALL THAT 'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. Indian Air.

ALL that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest.

Stars that shine and fall;

The flower that drops in springing;These, alas! are types of all

To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,-
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!

The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur, called La Statoe de l'Amitié..

Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking? Better far to be

In utter darkness lying, Than be blest with light and see That light for ever flying. All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest!

SO WARMLY WE MET.
Hungarian Air.

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,

That which was the sweeter even I could not tell

That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,

Or that tear of passion which bless'd our farewell.
To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another,-
Our joy and our sorrow seem'd rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other

In smiles and in tears, than that moment to this.
The first was like day-break-new, sudden, delicious,
The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet-
The last was that farewell of daylight, more precious,
More glowing and deep, as 't is nearer its set.
Our meeting, though happy, was tinged by a sorrow
To think that such happiness could not remain;
While our parting, though sad, gave a hope that to-

morrow

Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

AIR-The Bells of St Petersburgh.

THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!

And so 't will be when I am gone!
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.
Portuguese Air.

SHOULD those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,
Which now so sweetly thy heart employ;
Should the cold world come to wake thee
From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish
Him who once thought thy young heart his own,

The metre of the words is here necessarily sacrificed to the air.