Ah, well may we call her, like thee, 'the Forsaken,' Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the morrow, When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over And- -a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover- DRINK OF THIS CUP. DRINK of this cup--you'll find there's a spell in Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. Send round the cup-for oh! there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Never was philtre formed with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing! As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. To enliven such hearts as are here brought together! And though, perhaps-but breathe it to no one- What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame Which may work to its charm, though now lawless and hidden. Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality- THE FORTUNE-TELLER. Down in the valley come meet me to-night, But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive me; If at that hour the heavens be not dim, Then to the phantom be thou but kind, Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, What other thoughts and events may arise, OH, YE DEAD! On, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves. In far-off fields and waves. Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, Those eyes that wept your fall, And the hearts that bewailed you, like your own, lie dead! It is true-it is true-we are shadows cold and wan; So sweet is still the breath Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wandered c'er, To freeze mid Hecla's' snow, We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more O'DONOGHUE'S MISTRESS.2 Of all the fair months, that round the sun Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me! Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves Fair lake, fair lake, thou'rt dear to me; Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee. Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore White steed, white steed, most joy to thee, While white as the sail some bark unfurls, 1 Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately. 2 The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donoghue and his white horse may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path. Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a tit of insanity, on a Maymorning threw herself into the lake. 3 The boatmen of Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, O'Donoghue's white horses. And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Fair steed, around my love and thee: Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May-evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee. ECHO. How sweet the answer Echo makes When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star 'Tis when the sigh in youth sincere, The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear, Breathed back again! OH! BANQUET NOT. On! banquet not in those shining bowers More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We'll brim the bowl to broken vows, To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, as some blighted laurel waves THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking, When friends are met, and goblets crowned, My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted Whatever in fame's high path could waken For thee, thee, only thee. Like shores, by which some headlong bark I have not a joy but of thy bringing, Like spells that nought on earth can break, SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT? SHALL the harp then be silent when he, who first gave Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies?1 No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost?? 1 The celebrated Irish orator and patriot, Grattan. It is only these two first verses that are either fitted or intended to be sung. |