SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke, Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west- While you add to your garland the olive of Spain ! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd Its devotion to feel and its rights to maintain; BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away! Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, That the fervour and faith of a soul may be known, As the sun-flower turns to her god when he sets ERIN O ERIN! LIKE the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy shrine, The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade! Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last! DRINK TO HER. DRINK to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh; The girl who gave to song By other fingers play'd, Then here's to her who long When wealth and wit once stood, What gold could never buy! The love that seeks a home Where wealth and grandeur shines Is like the gloomy gnome That dwells in dark gold mines. Can boast a brighter sphere; Though woman keeps it here! The girl who gave to song OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.* Oн blame not the bard if he flies to the bowers Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame; Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart, † *We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire, And that spirit is broken which never would bend. For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch that would light them through dignity's way Must be caught from the pile where their country expires! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal; Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he 'll feel! That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. WHILE gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turn'd, In lone and distant glory burn'd. Each proud star For me to feel its warming flame Much more dear That mild sphere Which near our planet smiling came; + While brighter eyes unheeded play, * See the Hymn attributed to Alcæus, "I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," &c. "Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together."-Whiston's Theory, &c. I'll love those moonlight looks alone, The day had sunk in dim showers, But midnight now, with lustre meek, Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek. The moon's smile Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss,) On many brooks, The brook can see no moon but this; * ILL OMENS. WHEN day-light was yet sleeping under the billow, For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her soul in, And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, She brush'd him—he fell, alas! never to rise "Ah! such," said the girl," is the pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies!" While she stole through the garden where heart's-ease was growing, And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, 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!" *This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many nightflowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.' |