The 2, welcome the bard where'er he comes,-
For, though he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,—
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

ALONE in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved

Shed round us once, where'er we roved-
This, this the doom must be

Of all who've loved, and lived to see

The few bright things they thought would stay Forever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice-where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no,-her spell is vain,-

As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE

I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:

1 The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians. "Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus

I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurm'ring dies,

Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

The rose saith, chidingly, "Husà, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,' who born among

The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus,-his only song

To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

THEY came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main

Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
"Our destined home or grave?”2

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines

A sparkle of radiant green,

As though in that deep lay emerald mines, Whose light through the wave was seen. ""Tis Innisfail3-'tis Innisfail!"

Rings o'er the echoing sea;

While, bending to heav'n, the warriors hail That home of the brave and free.

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye

A look of such sunny omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,

When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.

should obtain the possession of a Western Island, (which was Ireland,) and there inhabit."-Keating.

* The Island of Destiny one of the ancient names of Ireland

THE NIGHT DANCE.

STRIKE the gay harp! see the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her

eye,

Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. Then, sound notes-the gayest, the lightest,

That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest!

Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wak'ning its spell, even stone would be stirr'd, And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,

Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny's rude control, Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,

And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,

Was like that rock of the Druid race,' Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us?

Again, that strain !-to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding—
Again! Again!

h, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a
feather,

Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

THERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,

That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.

And, see-the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter

To sink in your rosy bondage bound.

OH! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,

How oft I dream of thee,

And of those days when, by thy shore,

I wander'd young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then

Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs

That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing;2-

That Eden where th' immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,—
Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,-
As sunny and as vain!

APPENDIX:

CONTAINING

THE ADVERTISEMENTS

ORIGINALLY PREFIXED TO THE DIFFERENT NUMBERS,

AND

THE PREFATORY LETTER ON IRISH MUSIC.

ADVERTISEMENT

PREFIXED

TO THE FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS.

POWER takes the liberty of announcing to the Public a Work which has long been a Desideratum in this country. Though the beauties of the National Music of Ireland have been very generally felt and acknowledged, yet it has happened, through the want of appropriate English words, and of the arrangement necessary to adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excellent compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. It is intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the best Original Irish Melodies, with characteristic Symphonies and Accompaniments; and with Words containing, as frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of the country. Sir John Stevenson has very kindly consented to undertake the arrangement of the Airs; and the lovers of Simple National Music may rest secure, that, in such tasteful hands, the native charms of the original melody will not be sacrificed to the ostentation of science.

In the Poetical Part, Power has had promises of assistance from several distinguished Literary Characters; particularly from Mr. Moore, whose lyrical talent is so peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose zeal in the undertaking will be best understood from the following Extract of a Letter which he has addressed to Sir John Stevenson on the subject:

"I feel very anxious that a work of this kind should be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent for which our English neighbors ever deigned to allow us any credit. Our National Music has never been properly collected; and, while the composers of the Continent have enriched their Operas and Sonatas with melodies borrowed from Ireland,-very often without even the honesty of acknowledgment,-we have left these treasures, in a great degree, unclaimed and

1 The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the public are indebted to Mr. Bunting for a very valuable

fugitive. Thus our Airs, like too many of our countrymen, have, for want of protection at home, passed into the service of foreigners. But we are come, I hope, to a better period of both Politics and Music; and how much they are connected, in Ireland, at least, appears too plainly in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterizes most of our early Songs.

"The task which you propose to me, of adapting words to these airs, is by no means easy. The Poet who would follow the various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and levity, which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their Music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some melancholy note intrude,—some minor Third or flat Seventh,-which throws its shade as passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If Burns had been an Irishman, (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon Ossian for him,) his heart would have been proud of such music, and his genius would have made it immortal.

"Another difficulty (which is, however, purely mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the Poet must write, not to the eye, but to the ear; and must be content to have his verses of that description which Cicero mentions, Quos si cantu spoliaveris nuda remanebit oratio. That beautiful Air, 'The Twisting of the Rope,' which has all the romantic character of the Swiss Ranz des Vaches, is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will not be very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with Poetry. However, notwithstanding all these difficulties, and the very moderate portion of talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design appears to me so truly National, that I shall feel much pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my power. "Leicestershire, Feb. 1807."

ADVERTISEMENT

TO THE THIRD NUMBER

IN presenting the Third Number of this work to the Public, Power begs leave to offer his acknow

collection of Irish Music; and that the patriotic genius of Miss Owenson has been employed upon some of our finest airs.