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Hapless Nation! hapless Land!
Heap of uncementing sand!
Crumbled by a foreign weight :
And by worse, domestic hate.

God of mercy! God of peace!
Make this mad confusion cease;
O'er the mental chaos move,
Through it SPEAK the light of love.

Monstrous and unhappy sight!
Brothers' blood will not unite ;
Holy oil and holy water

Mix, and fill the world with slaughter.

Who is she with aspect wild?

The widow'd mother with her child-
Child new stirring in the womb!
Husband waiting for the tomb !

Angel of this sacred place,
Calm her soul and whisper peace -
Cord, or axe, or guillotine,

Make the sentence--not the sin.

Here we watch our brother's sleep :
Watch with us, but do not weep:
Watch with us thro' dead of night-
But expect the morning light.

MY FATHER

WHO took me from my mother's arms,

And, smiling at her soft alarms,

Showed me the world and Nature's charms?

Who made me feel and understand

The wonders of the sea and land,

And mark through all the Maker's hand?

Who climbed with me the mountain's height,
And watched my look of dread delight,
While rose the glorious orb of light?

Who from each flower and verdant stalk
Gathered a honey'd store of talk,
And filled the long, delightful walk ?

Not on an insect would he tread,
Nor strike the stinging nettle dead-
Who taught, at once, my heart and head?

Who fired my breast with Homer's fame,
And taught the high heroic theme
That nightly flashed upon my dream?

Who smiled at my supreme desire
To see the curling smoke aspire
From Ithaca's domestic fire?

Who, with Ulysses, saw me roam,
High on the raft, amidst the foam,
His head upraised to look for home?

'What made a barren rock so dear?'
'My boy, he had a country there!'
And who then dropped a precious tear?

Who now in pale and placid light
Of memory gleams upon my sight,
Bursting the sepulchre of night?

Oh teach me still thy Christian plan,
For practice with thy precept ran,
Nor yet desert me, now a man.

Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice

With charm of thy angelic voice ;
Still prompt the motive and the choice-

For yet remains a little space

Till I shall meet thee face to face,

And not, as now, in vain embrace.

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN

THE famous wit and orator was born at Newmarket, County Cork, July 24, 1750, and died in London on October 14, 1817. He wrote few poems, and the following sombre lament, with its cry like that of the wind in a ruined house, is by far the best of them. It was founded on a chance encounter and conversation with a deserting soldier whom he met on a journey.

THE DESERTER'S MEDITATION

IF sadly thinking, with spirits sinking,

Could more than drinking my cares compose,
A cure for sorrow from sighs I'd borrow,
And hope to-morrow would end my woes.
But as in wailing there's nought availing,
And Death unfailing will strike the blow,
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go.

To joy a stranger, a way-worn ranger,
In every danger my course I've run;
Now hope all ending, and death befriending
His last aid lending, my cares are done.
No more a rover, or hapless lover,

My griefs are over-my glass runs low;
Then for that reason, and for a season,
Let us be merry before we go.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN

THE great Irish wit, orator and dramatist was born in Dublin, 1751; a son of Thomas Sheridan, an actor. After a stormy life, much of which belongs to English literature and much to English history, he died in 1816, and was buried in Westminster

Abbey. The following graceful lyric, Dry be that Tear,' illustrates the well-known love of intricate verbal melody, and the taste for cunning devices of chiming sound which mark Gaelic poetry, and which frequently appear in Anglo-Irish verse.

DRY BE THAT TEAR

DRY be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hushed that struggling sigh;
Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove,
More fixed, more true, than I.

Hushed be that sigh, be dry that tear;

Cease, boding doubt; cease, anxious fear-
Dry be that tear.

Ask'st thou how long my love shall stay,
When all that's new is past?

How long? Ah! Delia, can I say,

How long my life shall last?

Dry be that tear, be hushed that sigh;
At least I'll love thee till I die-

Hushed be that sigh.

And does that thought affect thee, too,
The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he, who only breathed for you,
Must yield that faithful breath?
Hushed be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven here --

SONG

Dry be that tear.

HAD I a heart for falsehood framed,

I ne'er could injure you ;

For, tho' your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms would make me true;

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong,

For friends in all the aged you'll meet,

And lovers in the young.

But when they find that you have blessed
Another with your heart,

They'll bid aspiring passion rest,

And act a brother's part.

Then, lady, dread not here deceit,

Nor fear to suffer wrong,

For friends in all the aged you'll meet,

And brothers in the young.

GEORGE NUGENT REYNOLDS

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BORN at Letterfyan, County Leitrim, about 1770; the son of a landowner in that county. He wrote numerous songs and poems for the Dublin magazines between 1792-95; published a musical piece called Bantry Bay' in 1797, which was performed at Covent Garden, and a poem in four cantos in 1791. The following is his best song. Several pieces have been attributed to him which he did not write. He died at Stowe, in Buckinghamshire, in 1802.

KATHLEEN Ο'MORE

My love, still I think that I see her once more,
But alas she has left me her loss to deplore,
My own little Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

Her hair glossy black, her eyes were dark blue,
Her colour still changing, her smiles ever new-
So pretty was Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

She milked the dun cow that ne'er offered to stir ;
Though wicked to all, it was gentle to her-

So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen,
My Kathleen O'More!

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