Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me.

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me.

Oft as summer closes,
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.

When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee-
Oh! then remember me.

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.*

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,
Though the days of the hero are o'er;

Though lost to Mononia,* and cold in the grave,

He returns to Kinkora† no more!

* Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

† Munster.

The palace of Brien.

That star of the field, which so often has pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;

But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to glory yet!

Mononia when nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?

No, freedom! whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,

'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains!

Forget not our wounded companions who stood *
In the day of distress by our side;

While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died!

The sun that now blesses our arms with his light,

Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain !

Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,

To find that they fell there in vain!

ERIN THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes

Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!

Shining through sorrow's stream,

Saddening through pleasure's beam,

Thy sons, with doubtful gleam,

Weep while they rise!

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form, in Heaven's sight,

One arch of peace!

*This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpatrick, Prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest-" Let stakes,' they said, "be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hundred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, " pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops-never was such another sight exhibited."-History of Ireland, book xii., chap. i.

OH BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

Оí breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps,
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee!

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine:

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee !

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more!

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;

The chord alone that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To shew that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon!

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,—
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh! 'tis pain
To break its link so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade,*
Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near;

And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-Oh stay,-

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here!

OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

OH think not my spirits are always as light

And as free from a pang as they seem to you now; Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.

* Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.

No, life is a waste of wearisome hours

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns ; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns! But send round the bowl, and be happy a while;

May we never meet worse in our pilgrimage here Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear! The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows! If it were not with friendship and love intertwined; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind! But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed; And the heart, that has slumber'd in friendship securest, Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceived.

But send round the bowl, while a relic of truth

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mineThat the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH
SORROW I SEE.

THOUGH the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear

One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.*

*In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII., an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes or coulins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers, (by which the English were meant,) or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.-Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr Walker informs us also that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish minstrels.