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Why should feeling ever speak, THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS. When thou canst breathe her soul so well? AIR

Friendship’s balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they ; Through grief and through danger thy smile hath

Oh! 't is only Music's strain cheer'd my way,

Can sweetly sooth, and not betray! Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round

me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd:

SHED.
Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more

AIR- The Sixpence.
dear to thee.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd That can tell how beloved was the friend that 's fled, and scorn'd;

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows’T is the tear through many a long day wept, adorn'd;

Through a life by his loss all shaded; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in 'T is the sad remembrance, fondly kept, caves ;

When all lighter griefs have faded ! Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be,

While it shines through our heart, will improve Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought them; from thee.

For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he lived but to love them! They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are And, as buried saints have given perfume

frail
-

To shrines where they've been lying, Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom less pale!

From the image he left there in dying! They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering

chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains,

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

AIR-Gage Fane. subdue

'Tis believed that this harp, which I wake now for Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too !!

thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; And who often, at eve, through the bright billow

roved, ON MUSIC.

To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved AIR-Banks of Banna. When through life unbless'd we rove,

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep, Losing all that made life dear,

And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, Should some notes, we used to love

Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm, In days of boyhood, meet our ear,

And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form! Oh how welcome breathes the strain! Wakening thoughts that long have slept ;

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the Kindling former smiles again, In faded eyes that long have wept !

While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the

frame; Like the gale that sighs along

And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright Beds of oriental flowers,

rings, Is the grateful breath of song,

Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings !? That once was heard in happier hours.

Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,

known Though the flowers have sunk in death;

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,

Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay Its memory lives in Music's breath!

To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away' Music!-oh! how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell !

1 These lines were occasioned by the death of a very near and dear relative.

2 This thought was suggested by an ingenious design 1 “Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."- prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years St. Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17.

since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin.

a

same

New hope may bloom,
NO. IV.

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life This Number of The Melodies ought to have ap

As love's

young

dream! peared much earlier; and the writer of the words is

Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication As love's young dream! must be imputed chiefly, if not entirely, to him. He finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for Though the bard to purer fame may soar, the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, When wild youth 's past; but in consequence of a rumour, which has been cir- Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, culated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Govern

To smile at last; ment had interfered to prevent the continuance of

He'll never meet the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of A jog so sweet, Henry the Eighth's enactments against Minstrels, and In all his noon of fame, it is very flattering to find that so much importance is As when first he sung to woman's ear attached to our compilation, even by such persons as His soul-felt flame, the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, And, at every close, she blush'd to hear was of this opinion, that one song, like the Hymn to

The one loved name! Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Romans than all the philippics of

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times;

Which first-love traced; ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers,

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot and we question if even a “Lillibullero” would pro- On memory's waste ! duce any very serious consequences at present. It is

'T was odour fled needless, therefore, to add, that there is no truth in

As soon as shed; the report; and we trust that whatever belief it ob- 'Twas morning's winged dream; tained was founded more upon the character of the 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again Government than of the Work.

On life's dull stream! The Airs of the last Number, though full of origi- Oh! 't was light that ne'er can shine again nality and beauty, were perhaps, in general, too cu

On life's dull stream. riously selected to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The Public are remarkably reserved towards new acquaintances in music, which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why

THE PRINCE'S DAY.' many modern composers introduce none but old

AIR-St. Patrick's Day. friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that per- Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget sons who love music only by association, should be

them, slow in feeling the charms of a new and strange

And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in melody; while those who have a quick sensibility for

showers; this enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a

More form'd to be grateful and bless'd than ours ! fresh combination of ideas, and the sound has scarcely

But, just when the chain reached the ear, before the heart has rapidly trans

Has ceased to pain, lated it into sentiment. After all, however, it can

And Hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, not be denied that the most popular of our national

There comes a new link Airs are also the most beautiful; and it has been our

Our spirits to sinkwish, in the present Number, to select from those Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Melodies only which have long been listened to and

Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay ; admired. The least known in the collection is the But, though 't were the last little spark in our souls, Air of “ Love's young Dream ;" but it is one of those

We must light it up now on our Prince's Day. easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly.

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal ! T. M.

Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are Bury Street, St. James's,

true;
Nov. 1811.

And the tribute most high to a head that is royal
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards who blight

Your fame, your right,
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
AIR- The Old Woman.

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen-
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove!

1 This song was written for a fete in honour of the Prince When my dream of life, from morn till night,

of Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at Was love, still love!

his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this

minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,

When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded

In hearts which have sutfer'd too much to forget; And hope shall be crown’d, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light, to the last ! And thus, Erin, my country! though broken thou art,

There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; A spirit which beams through each suffering part,

And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's Day!

Beauty lies

In many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Creina !
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of Beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it! Oh ! my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases !

Yes, my Nora Creina, dear!
My simple, graceful Nora Creina !

Nature's dress

Is loveliness-
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina !
Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,

In safer slumber Love reposes-
Bed of peace ! whose roughest part
Is but the crumbling of the roses.

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!
My mild, my artless Nora Creina !

Wit, though bright,

Hath not the light That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina !

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

Air— The Song of Sorrow. WEEP on, weep on, your hcur is past,

Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,

And you are men no more!
In vain the hero's heart hath bled,

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,

It never lights again!
Weep on—perhaps in after days

They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed shall wake in praise

That now must sleep in blame ! And, when they tread the ruin'd isle,

Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile

Could conquer hearts so brave. 6 'T was fate," they'll say,

"

a wayward fate Your web of discord wove; And, while your tyrants join'd in hate,

You never join'd in love!
But hearts fell off that ought to twine,

And man profaned what God hath given, Till some were heard to curse the shrine

Where others knelt to Heaven !''

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME

AIR-Domhnall.
I saw thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of time,

And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light

Which fleets not with the breath ;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright

Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,

Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines

Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,

Thy radiant genius shone,
And that which charm'd all other eyes

Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

AIR-Nora Creina. LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth! Sweeter 't is to gaze upon

My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises !

Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina !

If souls could always dwell above,

Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; Or, could we keep the souls we love,

We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! Though many a gifted mind we meet,

Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet

Than to remember thee, Mary!'

1 I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, “ Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!")

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE. He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him,AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, By that lake, whose gloomy shore

Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Sky-lark never warbles o'er, 2
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.

When they promise a glorious morrow; “ Here at least,” he calmly said,

They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West “ Woman ne'er shall find my bed.”

From her own loved Island of Sorrow!
Ah! the good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

NAY, TELL ME NOT.
'T was from Kathleen's eyes he flew-
Eyes of most unholy blue !

Air-Dennis, don't be threatening. She had loved him well and long,

Nay, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,

Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Still he heard her light foot nigh;

Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam East or west, where'er he turn'd,

Been lost in the stream Still her eyes before him burn'd.

That ever was shed from thy form or soul; On the bold cliff's bosom cast,

The balm of thy sighs, Tranquil now he sleeps at last ;

The light of thine eyes, Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er

Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl ! Woman's smile can haunt him there.

Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal But nor earth, nor heaven is free

One blissfal dream of the heart from me! From her power, if fond she be:

Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, Even now, while calm he sleeps,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee! Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower Fearless she had track'd his feet

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine; To this rocky wild retreat ;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, And when morning met his view,

But bathed the other with mantling wine. Her mild glances met it too.

Soon did the buds, Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!

That drank of the floods Sternly from his bed he starts,

Distill’d by the rainbow, decline and fade; And, with rude repulsive shock,

While those which the tide Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Of ruby had dyed

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Glendalough! thy gloomy wave

Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave;

One blissful dream of the heart from me; Soon the saint (yet, ah! too late)

Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
Felt her love, and mourn’d her fate.

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
When he said, “ Heaven rest her soul !"
Round the lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

AIR-Crooghan a Venee.

AVENGING and bright fell the swift sword of Erin' SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd !Air-Open the Door.

1 The words of this song were suggested by the very SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, ancient Irish story, called " Deirdri, or the lamentable fate And lovers are round her sighing ;

of the sons of Usnach,” which has been translated literally But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. 1. of Trans

actions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin,) and upon which For her heart in his grave is lying !

it appears that the “Darthula” of Macpherson is founded.

The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war

against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. Every note which he loved awaking.–

"This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been from time imAh ! little they think, who delight in her strains, memorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking !

stories of the Irish. These are, .The death of the children of Touran;' "The death of the children of Lear' (both re

garding Tuatha de Danans;) and this, "The death of the 1 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories re- children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story.". In No. lated of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at II. of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county children of Lear or Lir: “Silent, oh Moyle!” etc. of Wicklow.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to 2 There are many other curious traditions concerning this antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc. the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproaca fall;

For every fond eye hath waken'd a tear in,

Love stood near the Novice and listen'd, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; blade.

His laughing blue eyes now with piety glisten'd;

His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwel

“Who would have thought,” the urchin cries, ling,

“That Love could so well, so gravely disguise When Vlad's three champions lay sleeping in His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?”

gore_? By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Have wasted these heroes to victory's shore ! Young Novice; to him all thy orisons rise;

He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, We swear to revenge them !--no joy shall be tasted,

He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed;

Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest, Till vengeance is wreak’d on the murderer's head! If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest. Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollec

tions, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH

PLEASURES AND WOES. Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our af- Air-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the fections,

Brim. Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,

That chase one another, like waves of the deep,

Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep.
AIR-The Yellow Horse.

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; He.-What the bee is to the floweret,

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
When he looks for honey-dew

The goose-feathers of folly can turn it aside.
Through the leaves that close embower it,

But pledge me the cup—if existence would cloy, That, my love, I'll be to you!

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,

Be ours the light Grief that is sister to Joy,
She.—What the bank, with verdure glowing,

And the short brilliant Folly that flashes and dies!
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going, When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
That I'll be to you, my dear!

Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of

play, She.-But they say, the bee's a rover,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, That he'll fly when sweets are gone; And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.' And, when once the kiss is over,

Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and Faithless brooks will wander on!

have tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,

Their time with the flowers on the margin have If sunny banks will wear away,

wasted, 'Tis but right that bees and brooks

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! Should sip and kiss them, while they may.

But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see
One bright drop or two, that has fallen on the leaves

From her fountain divine, 't is sufficient for me!
LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

Air-Cean Dubh Delish.
"HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers,
Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;

No. V.
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
To Heaven in mingled odour ascend!

It is but fair to those who take an interest in this
Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!
So like is thy form to the cherubs above,

Work, to state that it is now very near its termination,

and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily apIt well might deceive such hearts as ours.”

pear, will, most probably, be the last of the series.

It is not so much from a want of materials, and upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentle man did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that they merit.

we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task 1“Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I seo over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."- to a close; but we feel so proud, for our country's -Deirdri's Song. 2 Ulster.

1 Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. I. i. eleg 20.

1

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