Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.' You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, They see a proud castle among the trees. And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the gate. "Now, welcome, Lady!" exclaim'd the youth, Far better lights shall win me Along the path I've yet to roam,- And pure smiles from thee at home. Thus, when the lamp that lighted And looks around, in fear and doubt. No. VI. IN presenting this Sixth Number as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal farewells which a lover takes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive indeed for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were beginning to be exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed-pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to string together. But this intention, which we announced in our Fifth Number, has excited an anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all." pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for She believed him wild, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall! And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger woo'd and wed; I'D MOURN THE HOPES. I'D mourn the hopes that leave me, With heart so warm and eyes so bright, That smile turns them all to light! "T is not in fate to harm me, That long sparkled o'er our way, More safely without its ray. 1 This Ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story, told of a certain noble family in England. the various contributions we have received in con- March, 1815. COME O'ER THE SEA. AIR-Cuishlih ma Chree. COME o'er the sea, Maiden! with me, T. M. AIR-Sly Patrick. HAS sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded, That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither Each feeling that once was dear?Then, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. Has love to that soul, so tender, Allured by the gleam that shone, If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, Each feeling that once was dear ;Come, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,Than came that voice, when, all forsaken, This heart long had sleeping lain, 1 Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them. 2 "The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," etc.-Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China. Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken Of summer wind through some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell! 'T was whisper'd balm-'t was sunshine spoken!I'd live years of grief and pain, To have my long sleep of sorrow broken WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. I saw thee change, yet still relied, The heart, whose hopes could make it Deserves that thou shouldst break it! When every tongue thy follies named, I still was true, when nearer friends Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, The few who loved thee once have fled, And they who flatter scorn thee. No genial ties enwreathe it ; I would not now surrender For all thy guilty splendour! And days may come, thou false one! yet, With smiles had still received thee, "Tis weakness to upbraid thee, Than guilt and shame have made the With a pencil of light That illumed all the volume, her WELLINGTON'S name! "Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies; "Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. For, though heroes I've number'd, unbless'd was their lot, And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame; But, oh! there is not One dishonouring blot On the wreath that encircles my name! WELLINGTON'S "Yet, still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest even thou hast yet known; Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood, Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fameAnd, bright o'er the flood Of her tears and her blood, Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON'S name!" THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. THE time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In Woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Were Woman's looks, Her smile when Beauty granted, Like him, the Sprite,' Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 1 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. Like him, too, Beauty won me But while her eyes were on meIf once their ray Was turn'd away. Oh! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? For brilliant eyes Is now as weak as ever! WHERE IS THE SLAVE? AIR-Sios agus sios liom. 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? Less dear the laurel growing, And the foe we hate before us! COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer? 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! Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torrents, through glory and shame ? I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, NATIONAL AIRS. ADVERTISEMENT. IT is Cicero, I believe, who says "natura ad modos ducimur;" and the abundance of wild indigenous airs, which almost every country except England possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple but interesting kind of music are here presented with the first number of a collection, which I trust their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering, in search of the remainder of themselves, through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers, is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song. NATIONAL AIRS. No. I. T. M. A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.' "A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, "Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim! But yon little god upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him." So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you 're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship, and took away Love." 1 The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur called "Le Statue de l'Amitié." FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER FLOW on, thou shining river; The current of our lives shall be, But if, in wandering thither, Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, Then leave those wreaths to wither Upon the cold bank there. And tell her-thus, when youth is o'er, Her lone and loveless charms shall be Thrown by upon life's weedy shore, Like those sweet flowers from thee. ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. ALL that 's bright must fade,- But to be lost when sweetest. The flower that drops in springing ; These, alas! are types of all To which our hearts are clinging All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; That every hour are breaking? In utter darkness lying, The brightest still the fleetest; SO WARMLY WE MET. So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, That which was the sweeter even I could not tell-That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted, Or that tear of passion which bless'd our farewell While Reason took To his sermon-book Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another, The bell of his cap rung merrily out; THOSE EVENING BELLS. Those joyous hours are past away! And so 't will be when I am gone; SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. 'SHOULD those fond hopes e'er forsake thee, From all thy visions of youth and joy; And leave thy winter unheeded and lone ; Oh! 't is then he thou hast slighted Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er; Then the truant, lost and blighted, Would to his bosom be taken once more. Like that dear bird we both can remember, "Look here, sweet maid!" While Reason read With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" Old Reason's book, And twisted the leaves in a cap of such Ton, (Though not aloud,) She liked him still better in that than his own! FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE FARE thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; But eyes that acted truth so well Were sure to be believed. Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one! Love's sweet life is o'er. Yet those eyes look constant still, True as stars they keep their light; The blame of falsehood lies; But there, alas! he dies. Lovely still, but dear no more; REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. REASON, Folly, and Beauty, they say, Folly play'd Around the maid, DOST THOU REMEMBER. DOST thou remember that place so lonely Where first I told thee all my secret sighs? 1 The metre of the words is here necessarily sacrificed to Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee, the air. And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes. W |