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“For on thy deck, though dark it be.
66 A female form I see ; " And I have sworn this sainted sod “Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod!”
"Oh! Father, send not hence my
bark “ Through wintry winds and billows dark " I come with humble heart to share
“ Thy morn and evening prayer ; " Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint, “ The brightness of thy sod to taint.”
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurn’d ;
Till morning's light delay'd,
Nec te nec ullam aliam
See the Acta Sanct. Hib. page 610. According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon; but O'Connor, and other Antiquarians, deny this metamorphose indignantly.
HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.
AIR.—The Twisting of the Rope.
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sun-beams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest!
Some hand more calm and sage
The leaf must fill. Thoughts come as pure as light,
Pure as even you require ; But oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book ;
heart renew, When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you!
Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there!
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise
Towards you and home, Fancy may trace some line
Worthy those eyes to meet;
Thoughts that not burn, but shine
Pure, calm, and sweet!
And, as the records are,
Which wandering seamen keep,
Through the cold deep-
the words I write
Guiding my way!
When in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here ;
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o’er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door, Where weary
travellers love to call.* Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest ; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest! But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
* “In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in music."-O’HALLORAN,