RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.*

RICH and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,

As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm-

For though they love women and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!"

On she went, and her maiden smile

In safety lighted her round the Green Isle.
And blest for ever is she who relied

Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride!

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS
MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting!

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain,
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again!

*This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:-"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i., book x.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.*

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet! +
Oh the last rays of feeling and life must depart

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no-it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,

Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace!

ST SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST SENANUS.

"OH! haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;

And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod !"

THE LADY.

"O father, send not hence my bark,
Through wintry winds and billows dark;
I come with humble heart to share
Thy morn and evening prayer;
Nor mine the feet, O holy saint,
The brightness of thy sod to taint."

The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd;

The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd.

"The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807.

The rivers Avon and Avoco.

But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delay'd,

And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And as I watch the line of light that plays

Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest!

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

TAKE back the virgin page,

White and unwritten still;
Some hand more calm and sage
The leaf must fill.

Thoughts come, as pure as light,

Pure as even you require;
But oh! each word I write,
Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book;

Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you!
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there!

Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Towards you and home;
Fancy may trace some line,

Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,
Pure, calm, and sweet!

And as the records are

Which wandering seamen keep,
Led by their hidden star

Through winter's deep;
So may the words I write

Tell through what storms I stray,
You still the unseen light
Guiding my way!

THE LEGACY.

WHEN in death I shall calm recline,
Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hang it up at that friendly door,

Where weary travellers love to call.*
Then if some bard who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest!
But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Oh! then my spirit around shall hover,

And hallow each drop that foams for him.

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Benshee cried!

How oft has death untied

"In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in music."-O'Halloran.

Bright links that glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth!
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth!
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.

We're fallen upon gloomy days,*
Star after star decays,

Every bright name that shed
Light o'er the land is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth,
But brightly flows the tear

Wept o'er the hero's bier!

Oh! quench'd are our beacon lights—
Thou of the hundred fights! +
Thou on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung!

Both mute, but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride

Tell how they lived and died.

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.
WE may roam through this world like a child at a feast
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;
And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings, and be off to the west;

But if hearts that feel and eyes that smile

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies,

We never need leave our own Green Isle,

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes.

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,

Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.

* I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Neil, which is quoted in the Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland, page 433:-"Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!

Fox-"Ultimus Romanorum!"