She had loved him well and long,
Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turned,
Still her eyes before him burned.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock,

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourned her fate.
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.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,

From her own loved island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR. NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.

Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from

Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin 1

On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed!

For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,2 When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore —

By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore

We swear to revenge them! no joy shall be tasted,

The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,

1 The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the "Darthula of Macpherson" is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story [says Mr. O'Flanagan] has been, from time immemorial, heli in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are 'The death of the children of Touran;' The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans), and this, 'The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." It will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir; " Silent, oh Moyle! "

etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they so well merit.

2 "Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." - Deirdri's Song.

3 Ulster.

Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,

Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head.

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections,

Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;

Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE
FLOWERET.
HE.

WHAT the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Thro' the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

SHE.

What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they 're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

SHE.

But they say, the bee 's a rover,

Who will fly, when sweets are gone; And, when once the kiss is over, Faithless brooks will wander on.

HE.

Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, If sunny banks will wear away, "T is but right that bees and brooks Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE. "HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend:

"Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers

"To heaven in mingled odor ascend. "Do not disturb our calm, oh Love! "So like is thy form to the cherubs above,

"It well might deceive such hearts as

ours.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKERED WITH PLEASURES AND WOES. THIS life is all checkered with pleasures and woes,

That chase one another like waves of the deep,

Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.

But pledge me the cup- if existence would cloy,

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,

Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

1 proposito florem prætulit officio.
PROPERT. lib. i. eleg. 20.

2 It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as beautiful child, standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-colored grass in her hand.

a

We saw how the sun looked in sinking,

The waters beneath him how bright; And now, let our farewell of drinking Resemble that farewell of light. You saw how he finished, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim So, fill up, let 's shine at our parting,

In full liquid glory, like him. And oh! may our life's happy measure Of moments like this be made up, 'T was born on the bosom of Pleasure, It dies mid the tears of the cup.

1 "There are countries," says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo."'"

whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honorable, and exemplary.

2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran: "The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and con