God rest you! May your judgment-dues be light, Dear Turlogh! and the purgatorial days

Be few and short, till clothed in holy white,

Your soul may come before the Throne of rays. THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEE.

ADIEU TO INNISFAIL.

Though glowing breasts may be
In soft vales beyond the sea,
Yet ever, gra ma cree,

Shall I wail

For the heart of love I leave

In the dreary hours of eve,

On thy stormy shores to grieve,
Innisfail!

But mem'ry o'er the deep
On her dewy wing shall sweep,
When in midnight hours I weep
O'er thy wrongs;

And bring me, steeped in tears,
The dead flowers of other years,
And waft unto my ears

Home's songs.

When I slumber in the gloom
Of a nameless foreign tomb,
By a distant ocean's boom,
Innisfail !

Around thy em'rald shore

May the clasping sea adore,

And each wave in thunder roar, 'All hail !'

And when the final sigh

Shall bear my soul on high,

And on chainless wing I fly

Through the blue,

Earth's latest thought shall be,
As I soar above the sea,

"Green Erin, dear, to thee

Adieu !'

RICHARD DALTON WILLIAMS.

207

ERIN THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE
EYES.

ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream
Sadd'ning through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam
Weep while they rise.

Erin! thy silent tear shall never cease,

Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form in Heaven's sight

One arch of peace!

THOMAS MOORE.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S

HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells:

The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. 209

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE

WORE.

RICH and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore,

But, oh! her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.

'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray,

So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'

'Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm:

For, though they love women and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more !'

On she went, and her maiden smile

In safety lighted her round the green isle ;
And blest for ever is she who relied

Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made ev'ry dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should

cease,

And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

THOMAS MOORE.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

LET Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,

Which he won from her proud invader;

When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger;

Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve's declining,

He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining:

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover.
THOMAS MOORE.