Oh! the heart that has truly loved, never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close; As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turn'd when he rose! ERIN! OH ERIN! AIR-Thamama Halla. LIKE the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy shrine,' And turn'd through long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm! Erin! oh Erin! thus bright, through the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears! 1 The unextinguishable fire of St. Bridget at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions:-" Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicitè moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt ut à tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper inextinctus." Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern. Dist. 2, c. 34. The nations have fallen, and thou still art young; Thy sun is but rising, when others are set: And, though Slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung, The full moon of Freedom shall beam round thee yet. Erin! oh Erin! though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade! Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind, The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of Spring her dark chain unbind, And daylight and liberty bless the young flower2. Erin! oh Erin! thy winter is past, And the hope, that lived through it, shall blossom at last! 2 Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important subject. DRINK TO HER. AIR-Heigh ho! my Jackey. DRINK to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh— It yields not half the tone. The girl, who gave to Song At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her "Which might pass?" She answer'd, "He who could." With golden key Wealth thought Hath waked the poet's sigh- What gold could never buy! The love, that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome, That dwells in dark gold mines: But, oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above, Though woman keeps it here! Then drink to her who long, Hath waked the poet's sigh— The girl, who gave to Song What gold could never buy! |