With golden key Wealth thought Hath waked the poet's sigh, The love that seeks a home, Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; It's native home 's above, Though woman keeps it here! Then drink to her, who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.' OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fame; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart,2 And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. But alas! for his country-her pride is gone by, And that spirit is broken which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 't is treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray; Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream, He should try to forget what he never can heal; Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel! That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored, 1 We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spencer so severely, and, perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue." 2 It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation Is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland (called the land of Ire, for the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord." -Lloyd's State Worthies, Art. The Lord Grandison. AIR-Killy of Coleraine; or, Paddy's Resource. WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, 1 See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, Ev upтсU X¤á To Expos copnow "I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," etc. 2"Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together."-Whiston's Theory, etc. In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with the words, Non mille, quod absens. 3 This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works "The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.' י'. Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, Had promised to link the last tie before noon; As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise"Ah! such," said the girl, " is the pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies!" While she stole through the garden, where heart'sease was growing, She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too; But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning, Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost"Ah! this means," said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning,) That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!" BEFORE THE BATTLE. By the hope within us springing, No charm for him who lives not free! The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years:But oh! how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on Victory's breast! O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers, Where we dimm'd his glory's light! A chain like that we broke from then. May we pledge that horn in triumph round!' Many a heart, that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound : 1 "The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh outf them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."-Walker. But oh! how bless'd that hero's sleep, AFTER THE BATTLE. AIR-Thy Fair Bosom. NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way, And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day Stood, few and faint, but fearless still! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal, For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'dOh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honour's lost! The last sad hour of freedom's dream, OH! "T IS SWEET TO THINK. OH! 't is sweet to think that, wherever we rove, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near 1 I believe it is Marmontel, who says "Quand on n' a |pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a."-There are so many matter-of fact people, who take such jeuz d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they com pel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as them selves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having written an ingenious encomium of folly. Music!-oh! how faint, how weak, Language fades before thy spell! Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings!? To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; 1 These lines were occasioned by the death of a very near and dear relative. 2 This thought was suggested by an ingenious design 1 "Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."-prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years St Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17. since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin. NO. IV. THIS Number of The Melodies ought to have appeared much earlier; and the writer of the words is ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication must be imputed chiefly, if not entirely, to him. He finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, but in consequence of a rumour, which has been circulated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to prevent the continuance of the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's enactments against Minstrels, and it is very flattering to find that so much importance is attached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, was of this opinion, that one song, like the Hymn to Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Romans than all the philippics of Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times; ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers, and we question if even a "Lillibullero" would produce any very serious consequences at present. It is needless, therefore, to add, that there is no truth in the report; and we trust that whatever belief it obtained was founded more upon the character of the Government than of the Work. The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality and beauty, were perhaps, in general, too curiously selected to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The Public are remarkably reserved towards new acquaintances in music, which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why many modern composers introduce none but old friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that persons who love music only by association, should be slow in feeling the charms of a new and strange melody; while those who have a quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas, and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart has rapidly translated it into sentiment. After all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popular of our national Airs are also the most beautiful; and it has been our wish, in the present Number, to select from those Melodies only which have long been listened to and admired. The least known in the collection is the Air of "Love's young Dream;" but it is one of those easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly. Bury Street, St. James's, Nov. 1811. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. AIR-The Old Woman. T. M. OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove! When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love! WEEP ON, WEEP ON. AIR-The Song of Sorrow. WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past, Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more! In vain the hero's heart hath bled, The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;— Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again! Weep on-perhaps in after days They'll learn to love your name; Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave. ""T was fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate Your web of discord wove; And, while your tyrants join'd in hate, But hearts fell off that ought to twine, LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. AIR-Nora Creina. 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! Sweeter 't is to gaze upon My Nora's lid, that seldom rises; My gentle, bashful Nora Creina! I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME I SAW thy form in youthful prime, Which fleets not with the breath; Than in thy smile of death, Mary! As streams that run o'er golden mines, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines Thy radiant genius shone, If souls could always dwell above, Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere; 1 I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exqui site inscription of Shenstone's, "Heu! quanto minus est. cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse" |