Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long,
Awak'd by music's spell, shall rise;
For name so link'd with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And ev❜n within the holy fane,

When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought to him, whose earliest strain Was echoed there, shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side,
He, who now weaves this parting lay,
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still, in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last?

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,

Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown,
From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire

His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.

And so 'twill 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!

O'ER mountains bright

With snow and light,

We Crystal-hunters speed along;

While rocks and caves,

And icy waves,

Each instant echo to our song;

And, when we meet with store of gems,

We grudge not kings their diadems.

O'er mountains bright

With snow and light,
We Crystal-hunters speed along;

While grots and caves,

And icy waves,

Each instant echo to our song.

Not half so oft the lover dreams
Of sparkles from his lady's eyes,
As we of those refreshing gleams

That tell where deep the crystal lies; Though, next to crystal, we too grant, That ladies' eyes may most enchant. O'er mountains bright, &c.

Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose
The golden sunset leaves its ray,
So like a gem the flow'ret glows,
We thither bend our headlong way;
And, though we find no treasure there,
We bless the rose that shines so fair.
O'er mountains bright

With snow and light,

We Crystal-hunters speed along;

While rocks and caves,

And icy waves,

Each instant echo to our song.

ROW GENTLY HERE.

(VENETIAN AIR.)

Row gently here,
My gondolier,

So softly wake the tide,

That not an ear

On earth may hear,

But hers to whom we glide.

Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well

As starry eyes to see,

Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell
Of wandering youths like me!

Now rest thee here,

My gondolier,

Hush, hush, for up I go,

To climb yon light
Balcony's height,

While thou keep'st watch below.

Ah! did we take for Heaven above

But half such pains as we

Take, day and night, for woman's love,
What Angels we should be!

រ

AT morn, beside yon summer sea,
Young Hope and Love reclin'd;

But scarce had noon-tide come, when he
Into his bark leap'd smilingly,

And left poor Hope behind