'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, Thus his memory, like some holy light, Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved, Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay, LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright When my dream of life from morn till night New hope may bloom, And days may come But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life Though the bard to purer fame may soar, Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, He'll never meet In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear And, at every close, she blush'd to hear No-that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's wingèd dream; Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again THE PRINCE'S DAY.1 THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, Has ceased to pain, And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, Our spirits to sink Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny. While cowards, who blight Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The standard of Green In front would be seen Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute, The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray, A light to the last, And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art, WEEP ON, WEEP ON. WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past; In vain the hero's heart hath bled; The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;— O Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again! Weep on-perhaps in after days, They'll learn to love your name; And when they tread the ruin'd aisle Where rest at length the lord and slave, They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile ""Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate, And, while your tyrants join'd in hate, But hearts fell off that ought to twine, LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. LESBIA hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth. My Nora's lid that seldom rises; In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina! Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where Nature placed it. Oh, my Nora's gown for me, That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. Is loveliness The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. Lesbia hath a wit refined, But when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillow'd on my Nora's heart In safer slumber Love reposes- Hath no such light As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME. I SAW thy form in youthful prime, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise, And that which charm'd all other eyes If souls could always dwell above, BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.2 By that Lake whose gloomy shore Skylark never warbles o'er,3 Where the cliff hangs high and steep, Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. 66 Here, at least," he calmly said, "Woman ne'er shall find my bed." I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, "Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!" 2 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendaloughi, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. 8 There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c. |