BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.' By that lake, whose gloomy shore Where the cliff hangs high and steep, "T was from Kathleen's eyes he flew- She had loved him well and long, On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Glendalough! thy gloomy wave Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The light of thine eyes, Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl! They tell us that Love in his fairy bower That drank of the floods Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade; Of ruby had dyed All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Smiling, o'er the fatal tide! SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. AIR-Open the Door. AVENGING AND BRIGHT AVENGING and bright fell the swift sword of Erin' 1 The words of this song were suggested by the very SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, ancient Irish story, called "Deirdri, or the lamentable fate She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 1 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. 2 There are many other curious traditions concerning this ake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc. of the sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. 1. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin,) and upon which it appears that the "Darthula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, The death of the children of Touran;' The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans;) and this, 'The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." In No. II. of these Melodies there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: "Silent, oh Moyle!" etc. Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproac For every fond eye hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,' When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in By the billows of war which, so often, high swelling, We swear to revenge them!—no joy shall be tasted, Love stood near the Novice and listen'd, And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head! If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest. Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections, Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our af- AIR-The Bunch of Green Rushes that grew at the fections, Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all! WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing, She. But they say, the bee's a rover, That he'll fly when sweets are gone; Faithless brooks will wander on! He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, Brim. THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes, Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; The goose-feathers of folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Grief that is sister to Joy, And the short brilliant Folly that flashes and dies! When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.' Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine! LOVE AND THE NOVICE. "HERE we dwell, in holiest bowers, So like is thy form to the cherubs above, upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit. No. V. IT is but fair to those who take an interest in this Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of the series. It is not so much from a want of materials, and still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task 1 "Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red." to a close; but we feel so proud, for our country's -Deirdri's Song. 2 Ulster. 1 Proposito florem prætulit officio.—Propert. I. i. eleg 20. sake and our own, of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of that interest should be lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to leave some wish for more. In speaking thus I allude entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attraction of these volumes; and, though we have still many popular and delightful Melodies to produce,' yet it cannot be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier Numbers, for which, as we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to sympathize with the decline of the Music, and, however feebly my words have kept pace with the excellence of the Airs, they would follow their falling off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity. So that, altogether, both pride and prudence counsel us to stop, while the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attractive, and, in the imperial attitude, “stantes mori," before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or, what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same. We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution, like those Indians who put their relatives to death when they become feeble. Mayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, December, 1813. T. M. 1 Among these is Savourna Declish, which I have hitherto only withheld, from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine air have taken too strong possession of all 3ars and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number. And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky! Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear, When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear, And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orr son rolls, I think, oh, my love! 't is thy voice from the kingdom of souls,' 2 Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. of the trefoil, in Ireland called the Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this 1 "There are countries," says Montaigne, "where they plant as a national emblem. HOPE, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo." hand." ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. AIR-Moll Roe in the Morning. ONE bumper at parting!-though many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any Remains to be crown'd by us yet. The sweetness that pleasure has in it Is always so slow to come forth, That seldom, alas, till the minute It dies, do we know half its worth! Those few sunny spots, like the present, Cries, "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours; And never does Time travel faster Than when his way lies among flowers. His beam o'er a deep billow's brim- T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. AIR-Groves of Blarney. "Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle When true hearts lie wither'd, Oh! who would inhabit THE YOUNG MAY-MOON. THE young May-moon is beaming, love! Through Morna's grove,' While the drowsy world is dreaming, love. To lengthen our days, Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! Now all the world is sleeping, love! More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love! Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear! THE MINSTREL-BOY AIR-The Moreen. THE Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him.— "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!" The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain Thy songs were made for the pure and free THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI.2 AIR-The pretty Girl milking her Cow. 1 "Steals silently to Morna's grove." See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by John Brown, one of my earliest college companious and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary. 2 These stanzas are founded upon an event of most me lancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That sadden'd the joy of my mind. I look'd for the lamp, which she told me While the hand that had waked it so often When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen, Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! Of ERIN-how fall'n is thy fame! Already the curse is upon her, And strangers her vallies profane; On theirs is THE SAXON and GUILT. OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OH! had we some bright little isle of our own, Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give! Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances as related by O'Halloran. "The King of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the King of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days,) and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-The Monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. "Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis, (as I find him in an old translation,) "is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief's in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, sud by the destruction of Troy." There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, From decline as the bowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. AIR-Moll Roone. FAREWELL!-but, whenever you welcome the hour you! And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, OH! DOUBT ME NOT. Shall watch the fire awaked by Love May sing of Passion's ardent spell, Yet, trust me, all the stronger I feel the bliss I do not tell |