Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed, The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled, The smiling there, like light on graves, For all thy guilty splendour! And days may come, thou false one! yet, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee Than guilt and shame have made thee. WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping For her's was the story that blotted the leaves. With a pencil of light That illum'd all the volume, her Wellington's name! "Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies ;"Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. For tho' heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame ;But oh! there is not One dishonouring blot On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name! And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, Of her tears and her blood, Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!" THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. THE time I've lost in wooing, In woman's eyes, Were woman's looks, And folly's all they've taught me. Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Was turn'd away, O! winds could not outrun me. And are those follies going? For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing? No-vain, alas! th' endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever! *This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. WHERE IS THE SLAVE? OH! where's the slave, so lowly, His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? Who live to weep our fall! Less dear the laurel growing, The brows with victory glowing! And the foe we hate before us! COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same "TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER. "TIs gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead— When man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! "Tis gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And, darkest of all, hapless Erin o'er thee. For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing! I SAW FROM THE BEACH. I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, I came, when the sun o'er that beach was declining,- Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning "The Sun-burst" was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner. Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning, FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. FILL the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starr'd dominions: So we, sages, sit, And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning, From the heaven of wit Draw down all its lightning! Wouldst thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? The living fires that warm us. The careless youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in : |