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,

* 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.”

+ 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.”—Lloyal's State Worthies, Art, The Lord Grandison

:

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart!

II.

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 'tis 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

sires ; And the torch, that would light them through dig

nity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires !

III. 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,

a

While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of HARMODIUS, should cover his

sword.*

IV. But, though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,

Thy name, loved ERIN ! shall live in his songs; Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs! The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ;

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,

Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

AIR.-Oonagh.

I.

While gazing on the moon's light,

A moment from her smile I turn’d,

xhad to Že pos oogroa—“I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton,” etc.

To look at orbs that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burn'd.

But, too far,

Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame-

Much more dear

That mild sphere,
Which near our planet smiling came;
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own-

While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone,

Which bless my home and guide my way!

II.

The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meek, Illumined all the pale flowers,

Like hope, that lights a mourner's cheek.

I said while

The moon's smile
Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss),

66 The moon looks

“ On many brooks,
- The brook can see no moon but this;
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,

One Mary in the world for me.

ILL OMENS.

AIR.—Kitty of Coleraine; or, Paddy's Resource.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,

And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,

The last time she e'er was to press it alone.