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Could the chain for an instant be riven

When, arm'd for Right, they stood, sublime, Which Tyranny flung round us then,

And tyrants crouch'd before them ! Oh! 't is not in Man nor in Heaven,

When pure yet, ere courts began To let Tyranny bind it again!

With honours to enlave him,

The best honours worn by Man But t is past—and, though blazon'd in story

Were those which Virtue gave him. The name of our Victor may be,

Oh for the swords of former time! Accursed is the march of that glory

Oh for the men who bore them, Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime, Far dearer the grave or the prison,

And tyrants crouch'd before them!
Illumed by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all who have risen

Oh for the kings who flourish'd then !

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, On liberty's ruins to fame!

When hearts and hands of freeborn men

Were all the ramparts round them!

When, safe built on bosonis true,

The throne was but the centre,
AIR-Noch bonin shin doe.

Round which Love a circle drew,
They may rail at this life—from the hour I began it,

That Treason durst not enter. I've found it a life full of kindness and bliss ;

Oh for the kings who flourish'd then! And, until they can show me some happier planet,

Oh for the pomp that crown’d them, More social and bright, I'll content me with this

When hearts and hands of freeborn men
As long as the world has such eloquent eyes,

Were all the ramparts round them!
As before me this moment enraptured I see,
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

In Mercury's star, where each minute can bring them

New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing


AIR—My Husband's a Journey to Portugal gone. They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I.

NE'ER ask the hour-what is it to us And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,

How Time deals out his treasures ? And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,

The golden moments lent us thus They may talk as they will of their Edens above,

Are not his coin, but pleasure's. But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

If counting them over could add to their blisses, In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,

I'd number each glorious second ;
At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew, But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as

Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.

Then fill the cup—what is it to us And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.?

How Time his circle measures ? But, though they were even more bright than the queen

The fairy hours we call


up Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's!
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why,—this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one summer's morning,
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Set up among his smiling flowers

Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, A dial, by way of warning.
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station, But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could As long as its light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,
Oh! think what a world we should have of it here, And how fast that light was going.
If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee,

So fill the cup—what is it to us Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

How Time his circle measures ? And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me. The fairy hours we call up thus

Obey no wand but Pleasure's.


AIR-Name Unknown. Oh for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,


AIRThe Humming of the Ban.
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark-

Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

More sad, than those we leave behind

1 Tous les Habitans de Mercure sont vifs.-- Pluralité des Mondes.

2 La Terre pourra être pour Vénus l'étoile du berger et sa mère des amours, comme Vénus l'est pour nous.- 1b.


of it;

Each wave that passes seems to say,

Though death beneath our smile may be,
Less cold we are, less false than they

Air-Paddy O'Rafferty.
Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee.” DRINK of this cup-you'll find there's a spell in
Sail on, sail on-through endless space-

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Through calm-through tempest-stop no more;
The stormiest sea 's a resting-place

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Would you forget the dark world we are in,
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or-if some desert land we meet,

Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world that else were sweet-

But would you rise above earth, till akin

To immortals themselves, you must drain every Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

drop of it.
Send round the cup—for oh! there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-

Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
AIR-I would rather than Ireland.

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Yes, sad one of Sion,'—if closely resembling,
In shame and in sorrow, thy wither’d-up heart-

Never was philtre form’d with such power
If drinking, deep, deep, of the same “cup of trembling” Its magic began, when, in Autumn's rich hour,

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing! Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, There, having, by Nature's enchantment been fill'd

And fallen from her head is the once royal crown; With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,

weather, And “while it is day yet, her sun hath gone This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd, down."2

To enliven such hearts as are here brought to

gether! Like thine doth the exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Then drink of the cup—you 'll find there's a spell in

Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning, Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-
Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old!

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Ah, well may we call her, like thee, “the Forsaken,'

And though, perhaps—but breathe it to no oneHer boldest are vanquish’d, her proudest are slaves;

Like cauldrons the witch brews at midnight so And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they

awful, waken,

In secret this philtre was first taught to flow on, Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves !

Yet—'t is n’t less potent for being unlawful. Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame morrow,

Which in silence extracted its virtue forbiddenThat shines out at last on the longest dark night,

Fill up—there's a fire in some hearts I could name, When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and Which may work to its charm, though now law

less and hidden. Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight. So drink of the cup-for oh! there's a spell in

Its every drop ʼgainst the ills of mortality,
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
City 4

Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips,
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,

The howl in her halls and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came


Air-Open the Door softly.
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And—a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover-5 And I'll tell you your fortune truly
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.

As ever 't was told, by the new moon's light, 1 These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise

To young maidens shining as newly. by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh, 2 “Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."-Jer. Lest haply the stars should deceive me; 3 “ Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken.”—Isaiah,

These secrets between you and me and the sky Ixii. 4.

Should never go farther, believe me. 4 "How hath the oppressor ceased! the Golden City ceased."--Isaiah, xiv. 4.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim, 5 “Thy pomp is brought down to the grave-and the My science shall call up before you worms cover thee.”—Isaiah, xiv. 11. 6 “Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms.”

A male apparition-the image of him -Isaiah, xlvii. 5.

Whose destiny 't is to adore vou.

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Xv. 9.

Then to the phantom be thou but kind,

And round you so fondly he 'll hover, You 'll hardly, my dear, any difference find

'Twixt him and a true living lover. Down at your feet, in the pale moon-light,

He'll kneel, with a warmth of emotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite

You'd scarcely believe had a notion. What other thoughts and events may arise,

As in Destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes

To settle, ere morning, between them.

That youth who beneath the blue lake lies,

Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves
His lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair lake, fair lake, thou 'rt dear to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him

Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds that ever bore
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore,

White steed, white steed, most joy to thee,
Who still, when the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring,

Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane: curls

Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,

Fair steed, around my love and thee.
Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be,
Which under the next May-evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,

Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.


AIR-Plough Tune.
Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the

light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move

like men who live,
Why leave ye thus your graves,

In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,

To haunt this spot where all


wept your fall,
And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie


It is true—it is true—we are shadows cold and wan;
It is true—it is true--all the friends we loved are gone.

But, oh! thus even in death,

AIR—The Wren.
So sweet is still the breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wan-

How sweet the answer Echo makes
der'd o'er,

To Music at night,
That, ere condemn'd we go

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
To freeze 'mid Hecla’s' snow,

And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once

Goes answering light. more!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet,

Than e'er, beneath the moon-light's star,

Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar,

The songs repeat.
AIR-The Little and the Great Mountain.
Of all the fair months, that round the sun

'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere, In light-link'd dance their circles run,

And only then,-
Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me! The sigh that 's breathed for one to hear,
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,

Is by that one, that only dear,

Breathed back again" 1 Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to

OH! BANQUET NOT. their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

Air-Planxty Irwine. 2 The particulars of the traditions respecting O'Donohue

Oh! banquet not in those shining bowers and his white horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters.

Where youth resorts—but come to me, For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is sup For mine 's a garden of faded flowers, posed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the

And there we shall have our feast of tears-
sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups
of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring And many a cup in silence pour-
flowers in his path.

Our guests, the shades of former years,
Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the
Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl,

Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, 3 The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw on a windy day, crested with foam, “O'Donohue's white herself into the lake.



come near

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see,
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,

Through the waste of her annals, that epoch subWe'll brim the bowl to broken vows,

limeTo friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Like a pyramid raised in the desert—where he Or, as some blighted laurel waves

And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time ! Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves

That one lucid interval snatch'd from the gloom Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

And the madness of ages, when, fill'd with his soul, A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,

And, for one sacred instant, touch'd liberty's goal!

Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the
AIR-The Market Stake.

Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, The dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,

In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the The night's long hours still find me thinking

force, Of thee, thee, only thee.

And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown. When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,

An eloquence, rich-wheresoever it wave And smiles are near that once enchanted,

Wander'd free and triumphant--with thoughts that Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,

shone through My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted As clear as the brook's “stone of lustre," and gave, By thee, thee, only thee.

With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. Whatever in fame's high path could waken

Who, that ever approach'd him, when, free from the My spirit once, is now forsaken

crowd, For thee, thee, only thee.

In a home full of love, he delighted to tread Like shores, by which some headlong bark

'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which To the ocean hurries—resting never

bow'd, Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,

As if each brought a new civic crown for his headI know not, heed not, hastening ever To thee, thee, only thee.

That home, where— like him who, as fable hath told,'

Put the rays from his brow, that his child might
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing

Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old
From thee, thee, only thee.

Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear.
Like spells that nought on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,

Is there one who has thus, through his orbit of life, This heart, howe'er the world may wake

But at distance observed him—through glory, Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken

through blame, By thee, thee, only thee.

In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,

Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same. Such a union of all that enriches life's hour,

Of the sweetness we love and the greatness we SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT?

praise, AIR—Macfarlane's Lamentation.

As that type of simplicity blended with power, SHALL the Harp then be silent when he, who first A child with a thunderbolt, only portrays.

gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes ? Oh no-not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns, Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,

Deep, deep, o'er the grave where such glory is

shrined Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies ?'

O’er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns No—faint though the death-song may fall from his Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind !

Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows
be cross'd,

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclain to the world what a star hath been

AIR-Planxty Sudley.
Oh, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
What a union of all the affections and powers,

O’er files, array'd By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined,

With helm and blade, Was embraced in that spirit—whose centre was ours,

And plumes in the gay wind dancing! While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

When hearts are all high beating,

And the trumpet's voice repeating 1 The celebrated Irish orator and patriot, GRATTAN.Editor.

2 It is only these two first verses, that are either fitted or 1 Apollo, in his interview with Phaëton, as described by intended to be sung.

Ovid:"Deposuit radios propiusque accedere jussit."

lost !?

That song whose breath

May lead to death,
But never to retreating !
Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files, array'd

With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing. Yet 't is not helm or featherFor ask yon despot whether

His plumed bands

Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'emAdorn but Man with freedom,

And proud he braves

The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever;

"T is heart alone,

Worth steel and stone,
That keeps men free for ever!
Oh, that sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing

O'er files, array'd

With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing !



AIR—The Captivating Youth. SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,

May calm and sunshine long be thine How 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 !

And still the lovelier for thy tears-
For though but rare thy sunny smile,

T is heaven's own glance, when it appears Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,

But, when indeed they come, divine-
The steadiest light the sun e'er threw

Is lifeless to one gleam of thine !


AIRThe song of the Woods. 'Twas one of those dreams that by music are brought, Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's warm

thoughtWhen, 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 Glend'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

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.

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