While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease 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! This image was suggested by the following thought, which oc curs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works:- The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.» 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 check turns white, A chain like that we broke from then. Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round!' 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 crostOh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honour's lost! The last sad hour of freedom's dream, Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; 'If death that world's bright opening be, Oh! who would live a slave in this? OH! TIS SWEET TO THINK. On! 't is sweet to think that, wherever we rove, Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, 1 The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their Leverage at this day.-WALKER. I believe it is Marmontel, who says, Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on a'me, il faut aimer ce que l'on a.s-There are so many matter-offact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, 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 av ingenious encomium of folly. lay; Kindling former smiles again, Beds of oriental flowers, Is the grateful breath of song, That once was heard in happier hours. Music! oh! how faint, how weak, When thou canst breathe her soul so well? Love's are even more false than they; Oh! 't is only music's strain Can sweetly soothe, and not betray! IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.. Ir is not the tear at this moment shed, The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled, burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd: to thee. Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, To shrines where they 've been lying, J THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. "T is believed that this harp, which I wake now for thee, And who often, at eve, through the bright billow roved, Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; No IV. Tais 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, Νου. 18 11. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. A18-The Old Woman. On! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove! T. M. BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.. AIR-The Brown Irish Girl. By that lake, whose gloomy shore Where the cliff hangs high and steep, 'T was from Kathleen's eyes he flewEyes of most unholy blue! She had loved him well and long, On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Fearless she had track'd his feet Glendalough! thy gloomy wave He had lived for his love, for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, They'll shine o'er her sleep like a smile from the West, NAY, TELL ME NOT. NAY, tell me not, dear! that the goblet drowns Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The balm of thy sighs, The light of thine eyes, Still float on the surface and hallow my bowl! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me! Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee! They tell us that Love in his fairy bower That drank of the floods Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade; While those which the tide Of ruby had dyed All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest! that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee. SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. AIR-Open the Door. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 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 lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, etc. AVENGING AND BRIGHT. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin' The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story, called Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Uanach, 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'Fianagan) has been from time immemorial held in bigh repate 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 childrea of Usnach, which is a Milesian story." In No 11 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 sanguiue claims to antiquity, which Mr O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit. |