THERE is no instance, in the history of Song, where a few unpretending, beautiful poems have so deeply graven themselves on the hearts of his countrymen as Moore's Irish Melodies. Leigh Hunt has observed, that there are few men, who can hear, unmoved, those simple, yet touching verses. Every one has had some dear friend, now lost for ever, who once sung some of those pathetic strains, which are truly the Household Music of the Heart. This will, of course, appeal to every one who reads these remarks: for, among the list of those hallowed by the grave, he will surely find some whose voice has often trembled into tears as it sang the old familiar tunes. Moore

resembles so truly one of the old Troubadours, that it is difficult to consider him otherwise than with a richly carved and gilt guitar, singing his amorous lays in Beauty's bower. The exquisite finish of his verse, the glittering imagery and splendors of his scenery, throw over his themes a tint of oriental magnificence eminently in keeping with his subject. In the present household songs, however, he changes his hand, and checks his pride, and comes home to the firesides of all. Like a wandering minstrel, he strays from Hindostan to western climes, and finds an echo in the heart of every listener.

THOUGH an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course,

in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "anima dimidium," in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.

Erin, thy silent tear never shall 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!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonor'd his relies are laid:
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his
head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

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.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,*
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near.

And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?