« ForrigeFortsæt »
With golden key Wealth thought
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, To pass—but 't would not do:
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his While Wit a diamond brought,
sword.' Which cut his bright way through! So here is to her, who long
But, though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, Hath waked the poet's sigh,
Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs; The girl who gave to song
Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay What gold could never buy!
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy
wrongs ! The love that seeks a home,
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains; Where wealth or grandeur shines,
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Is like the gloomy gnome
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, That dwells in dark gold mines.
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep But oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere; It's native home 's above,
WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.
While gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs that, more bright,
But, too far,
Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame-
Much more dear
That mild sphere, Ou ! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
Which near our planet smiling came;?
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own-
While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moon-light looks alone, The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Which bless my home and guide my way! Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart,? And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
The day had sunk in dim showers, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But midnight now, with lustre meek, But alas ! for his country-her pride is gone by,
Illumined all the pale flowers, And that spirit is broken which never would bend;
Like hope, that lights a mourner's cheek O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
I said (while
The moon's smile
“The moon looks
On many brooks And the torch, that would light them through dignity's
The brook can see no moon but this ;''3
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run, way, Must be caught from the pile where their country
For many a lover looks to thee, expires!
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.
He should try to forget what he never can heal ;
Air-Kilty of Coleraine ; or, Paddy's Resource. That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down
When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, | We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spencer so severely, and, 1 Seo the Hymn, attributed to Alceus, Ex puprou ***** perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose to cupos comow. I will carry my sword, hidden in poems, he lells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," etc. of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeli- 2" Ofurich celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, ness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to mosi the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, of the others, is much inore beneficial than they all put towould serve to adorn and beautify virtue."
gether."-Whiston's Theory, etc. 2 It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emis derived from Yr, the Runic for a bor, in the use of which blems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with the words, wenpon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation Non mille, quod absens. is certainly moro creditable to us than the following: "So 3 This image was suggested by the following thought, that Ireland (called the land of Ire, for the constant broils which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works Therrin for 400 years) was now become the land of concord."" The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the nig 71-flowac -Lloyd's Staie Worthies, Art. The Lord (randison. sees but one moon.'
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, But oh ! how bless'd that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep! For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her
soul in, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
AFTER THE BATTLE. The maiden herself will steal after it soon!
AirThy Fair Bosom. As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er
Night closed around the conqueror's way, misses,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
Where those who lost that dreadful day A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Stood, few and faint, but fearless still ! Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,
For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, "Ah! such," said the girl, “ is the pride of our faces,
When all but life and honour 's lost ! For which the soul's innocence too often dies!”
The last sad hour of freedom's dream, While she stole through the garden, where heart's- And valour's task, moved slowly by, ease was growing,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; Should rise, and give them light to die And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glow
There is a world where souls are free, ing,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too; If death that world's bright opening be, But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Oh! who would live a slave in this? Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost“Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its
AIR—Thady, you Gander.
We are sure to find something blissful and dear;
And that, when we're far from the lips we love, AIR-The Fairy Queen.
We have but to make love to the lips we are near! By the hope within us springing,
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, By that sun whose light is bringing
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Oh ! remember life can be
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, No charm for him who lives not free!
To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near 'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears ! Happy is he o'er whose decline
'T were a shame, when flowers around us rise,
'T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Who close their eyes on Victory's breast ! Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeO'er his watch-fire's fading embers
able too, Now the foeman's cheek turns white, And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, When his heart that field remembers,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue!
To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near.
1 I believe it is Marmontel, who says " Quand on n'a In slumber cold at night shall lie,
pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a."- There
are so many matter of fact people, who take such jeux Nor waken even at victory's sound :
d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they com
pel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as them 1 “The Irish Coroa was not entirely devoted to martial selves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh worso physiologist for having playfully contended that snow out if them, as the Danish hunters do their beverago at this was black; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for day."-Walker.
having written an ingenious encomium of folly.
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 bum'de
IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd:
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'a 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'di
Through a life by his loss all shaded; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in 'Tis 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
"T is 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 be 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 brighi 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 Fillid 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 !
I 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, ini. 17.
since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin.
New hope may bloom,
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 joy 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,
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal
While cowards who blight
Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
The Standard of Green
In front would be seen-
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!
hig 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 suffer'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,
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!
In many eyes,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Presumes to stay where Nature placed it! Oh! my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear!
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-
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!
Wit, though bright,
Hath not the light That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina !
WEEP ON, WEEP ON.
Air-The Song of Sorrow. Weer on, weep on, your hour is past,
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
And you are men no more!
The sage's tongue hath warn’d in vain ;Oh, Freedom! orce thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!
They'll learn to love your name;
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. “'T was fate,” they'll say, “ a wayward fate
Your web of discord wove;
You never join'd in love!
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
Nor thought that pale decay
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Which fleets not with the breath ;
Than in thy smile of death, 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 ;
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
Thy radiant genius shone,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary! 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 fairest forns we see,
Than to remember thee, Mary!'
1 I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exqui. site inscription of Shenstone's, " !leu: quanto minus est. cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse ?