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Shall guard the flame awaked by thee.

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.'
AIR-Were I a Clerk.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains
Till William at length, in sadness, said,
"We must seek our fortune on other plains;"
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.
They roam'd a long and a weary way,

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,

They see a proud castle among the trees.
"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter there;
The wind blows cold, the hour is late:"-
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,

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,-
The mind that burns within me,

And pure smiles from thee at home.

Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller, at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,

And looks around, in fear and doubt.
But soon, the prospect clearing,
By cloudless star-light on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds!

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;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed.

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.
AIR-The Rose Tree.

I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But, while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,-

That smile turns them all to light!

"T is not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
"T is not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!
And, though the hope be gone, love,

That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,

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-
sequence have enriched our collection with so many
choice and beautiful Airs, that, if we keep to our re-
solution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an
instance of forbearance and self-command unexam-
pled in the history of poets and musicians.
Mayfield, Ashbourne,

March, 1815.

COME O'ER THE SEA.

AIR-Cuishlih ma Chree.

COME o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,

T. M.

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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,
Been like our Lagenian mine,'
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine-
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,2
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory-
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away!

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When Sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dear ;Come, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
AIR-Luggelaw.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

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
To such benign, bless'd sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 't was like the stealing

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
By such benign, bless'd sounds again!

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
AIR-O Patrick! fly from me.
WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver ! go,-

The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,"

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,-

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;

The few who loved thee once have fled,

And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreathe it ;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!
Go-go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fal,

With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
Go-go-'t is vain to curse,

"Tis weakness to upbraid thee,
Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made the

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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.
AIR-Peas upon a Trencher.

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.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
My only books

Were Woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,

Like him, the Sprite,'
Whom maids by night

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?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise

For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No-vain, alas! the endeavour
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. 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!

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!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
AIR-Lough Sheeling.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer?
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home 19

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,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!

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. pur

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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.'
Spanish Air.

"A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted,
"I'll build in this garden-the thought is divine!"
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted
An image of friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent,
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"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
Portuguese Air.

FLOW on, thou shining river;
But, ere thou reach the sea,
Seek Ella's bower, and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee.
And tell her thus, if she 'll be mine,

The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.

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.
Indian Air.

ALL that 's bright must fade,-
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall ;-

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;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when swectest!
Who would seek or prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,
Than be blest with light, and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,-

The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!

SO WARMLY WE MET.
Hungarian Air.

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
Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage,
Turn'd for a moment to Reason's dull page,
Till Folly said,

To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another, The bell of his cap rung merrily out;
Our joy and our sorrow seem'd rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other
In smiles and in tears, than that moment to this.
The first was like day-break-new, sudden, delicious,
The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet-
The last was that farewell of daylight, more precious,
More glowing and deep, as 't is nearer its set.
Our meeting, though happy, was tinged by a sorrow The sight of his cap brought her back to herself;
To think that such happiness could not remain ;
While our parting, though sad, gave a hope that to-

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THOSE EVENING BELLS.
AIR-The Bells of St. Petersburgh.
THOSE evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are past away!
And many a heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells!

And so 't will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.
Portuguese Air.

'SHOULD those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,
Which now so sweetly thy heart employ;
Should the cold world come to wake thee

From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends for whom thou wouldst banish
Him who once thought thy young heart his own,
All like spring birds, falsely vanish,

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,
Who left us while summer shone round,
But, when chill'd by bleak December,
Upon our threshold a welcome still found.

"Look here, sweet maid!"

While Reason read
His leaves of lead,

With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap;
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap-
"There it is,"

Quoth Folly, "old quiz!"
But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,
That Beauty now liked him still less than before;
While Folly took

Old Reason's book,

And twisted the leaves in a cap of such Ton,
That Beauty vow'd

(Though not aloud,)

She liked him still better in that than his own!

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE
Sicilian Air.

FARE thee well, thou lovely one!

Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.
Thy words, whate'er their flattering spell,
Could scarce have thus deceived;

But eyes that acted truth so well

Were sure to be believed.

Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,

Love's sweet life is o'er.

Yet those eyes look constant still,

True as stars they keep their light;
Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil
Of blushing always bright.
'Tis only on thy changeful heart

The blame of falsehood lies;
Love lives in every other part,

But there, alas! he dies.
Then fare thee well, thou lovely one!

Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.
Italian Air.

REASON, Folly, and Beauty, they say,
Went on a party of pleasure one day:

Folly play'd

Around the maid,

DOST THOU REMEMBER.
Portuguese Air.

DOST thou remember that place so lonely
A place for lovers and lovers only,

Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?
When as the moon-beam, that trembled o'er thee,

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

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