Like him, the Sprite,*
Whom maids by night

Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me—

If once their ray

Was turn'd

away,

Oh! winds could not outrun me.

III.

And are those follies going?

And is my proud heart growing

Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?

No-vain, alas! th' endeavour

* This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk :—as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady MORGAN (in a note upon her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnel) has given a very different account of that Goblin.

From bonds so sweet to sever ;

Poor Wisdom's chance

Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever!

WHERE IS THE SLAVE?

AIR.-Sios agus sios liom.

I.

WHERE is the slave, so lowly,

Condemn'd to chains unholy,

Who, could he burst

His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,

Would wait till time decay'd it,

When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, ERIN!--farewell all

Who live to weep our fall!

II.

Less dear the laurel growing,

Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that whose braid

Is pluck'd to shade

The brows with victory glowing!
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried

Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us!
Farewell, ERIN!—farewell all

Who live to weep our fall!

ÇOME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

AIR.-Lough Sheeling.

I.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still

here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,

And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!

II.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same

Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!

III.

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,— Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or-perish there too!

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

AIR.-Savournah Deelish.

I.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the deadWhen man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! 'Tis gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,

That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And, darkest of all, hapless ERIN! o'er thee.

II.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the

world;

When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,

At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.* Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid! Then, then-had one Hymn of Deliverance blended. The tongues of all nations-how sweet had ascended The first note of Liberty, ERIN! from thee.

III.

But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptized it in blood!
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost ERIN! on thee.

"The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.