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As if no cloud could ever rise,

To dim a heaven so purely brightI sigh to think how soon that brow In grief may lose its every ray, And that light heart, so joyous now, Almost forget it once was gay.

For Time will come with all his blights, The ruin'd hope-the friend unkindThe love that leaves, where'er it lights,

A chill'd or burning heart behind! While youth, that now like snow appears, Ere sullied by the darkening rain, When once 't is touch'd by sorrow's tears, Will never shine so bright again!

IF THOU 'LT BE MINE.
AIR-The Winnowing Sheet.
If thou 'It be mine, the treasures of air,
Of earth and sea, shall lie at thy feet;
Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,

Or in Hope's sweet music is most sweet,
Shall be ours, if thou wilt be mine, love!

Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,
A voice divine shall talk in each stream,
The stars shall look like worlds of love,
And this earth be all one beautiful dream

In our eyes-if thou wilt be mine, love!

And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,
Like streams that come from heaven-ward hills,
Shall keep our hearts-like meads, that lie
To be bathed by those eternal rills-

Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

All this and more the Spirit of Love
Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells;
That heaven, which forms his home above,
He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,
And he will-if thou wilt be mine, love!

To ladies'

TO LADIES' EYES. AIR-Fague a Ballagh. eyes a round, boy,

We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Though bright eyes so abound, boy,

"T is hard to chuse, 't is hard to chuse.

For thick as stars that lighten

Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers,

The countless eyes that brighten

This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup-where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

Some looks there are so holy,

They seem but given, they seem but given, As splendid beacons solely,

To light to heaven, to light to heaven.

While some-oh! ne'er believe them

With tempting ray, with tempting ray, Would lead us (God forgive them!)

The other way, the other way.

But fill the cup-where'er boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

In some, as in a mirror,

Love seems portray'd, Love seems portray'd, But shun the flattering error,

'T is but his shade, 't is but his shade.

Himself has fix'd his dwelling

In eyes we know, in eyes we know, And lips-but this is telling,

So here they go! so here they go!

Fill up, fill up-where'er, boy,

Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy,

So drink them all! so drink them all!

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OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME! AIR-Name Unknown.

On for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,

When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,

And tyrants crouch'd before them!
When pure yet, ere courts began

With honours to enslave him,
The best honours worn by Man

Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords of former time!

Oh for the men who bore them,
When, arm'd for right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them!

Oh for the kings who flourish'd then!

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round them! When, safe built on bosoms true,

The throne was but the centre, Round which Love a circle drew,

That Treason durst not enter. Oh for the kings who flourish'd then! Oh for the pop that crown'd them, When hearts and hands of freeborn men Were all the ramparts round then!

No VIII.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

AIR-My Husband's a Journey to Portugal gone.
NE'ER ask the hour-what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them over could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second;
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.
Then fill the cup-what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's!

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1 Tous les habitans de Mercure sont vifs.-Pluralité des Mondes. * La Terre pourra être pour Vénus l'étoile du berger et la mère des amours, comme Vénus l'est pour nous.-Ib.'

THE PARALLEL.

Ain-I would rather than Ireland. YES, sad one of Sion,-if closely resembling. In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heartIf drinking, deep, deep, of the same cup of trembling. Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jewa Į

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Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old!

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, « the Forsaken,,2

Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken, Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the mor

row

That shines out at last on the longest dark night, When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and

row

Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

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And though, perhaps-but breathe it to no one-
Like cauldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful,
In secret this philter was first taught to flow on,
Yet-'t is n't less potent for being unlawful.
What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden-
Fill up there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which
may work too its charm, though now lawless
and hidden.

So drink of the cup-for oh! there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality--
sor-Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

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To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall,

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May-evening's light,

And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, dead!

It is true-it is true-we are shadows cold and wan;
It is true-it is true-all the friends we loved are gone.
But, oh! thus even in death,

So sweet is still the breath

Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That, ere condemn'd we go

To freeze 'mid Hecla's' snow,

We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more!

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. *

AIR-The Little and Great Mountain.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,

Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me!
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves His lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair lake, fair lake, thou 'rt dear to me; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him

Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed chiefs on sea or shore,

White steed, white steed, most joy to thee, Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring,

Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd, thy long mane3 curls, Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Fair steed, around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,

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.

The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his white borse, may be found in Mr Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after bis 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 springflowers 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 fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the lake.

The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, O'Donohue's white horses..

Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee.

ECHO.

AIR-The Wren.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far,

And far more sweet, Than e'er, beneath the moon-light's star, Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat.

"T is when the sigh in youth sincere,
And only then,-

The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!

OH! BANQUET NOT.
AIR-Planxty Irwine.

On! banquet not in those shining bowers
Where youth resorts-but come to me,
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tearsAnd many a cup in silence pourOur guests, the shades of former yearsOur toasts, to lips that bloom no more.

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

Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves
Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. AIR-The Market-Stake. THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking

Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries-resting never-
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells that nought on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT?

AIR-Macfarlane's Lamentation.

SHALL the Harp then be silent when he, who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,

Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies?1

No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips, Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows be cross'd,

Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost! a

What a union of all the affections and powers,
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit-whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime-
Like a pyramid raised in the desert-where he

And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time!

That one lucid interval snatch'd from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when, fill'd with his soul,
A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,
And, for one sacred instant, touch'd liberty's goal!

Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the

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Apollo, in his interview with Phaeton, as described by Ovid: Opposuit radios propiusque accedere jussit. »

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