SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

SUBLIME was the warning which Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain!
O Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,

Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west-
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh! be the shamrock of Erin forgot,

While you add to your garland the olive of Spain !
If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia! our cause is the same;
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath
For the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain !

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth among strangers to find
That repose which at home they had sigh'd for in vain,
Breathe a hope that the magical flame which you light
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright;
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain !
God prosper the cause !-oh! it cannot but thrive
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive

Its devotion to feel and its rights to maintain;
Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die!
The finger of glory shall point where they lie,
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of Spain.

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG
CHARMS.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away!

Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,

That the fervour and faith of a soul may be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear!
Oh the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns to her god when he sets
The same look which she turn'd when he rose !

ERIN O ERIN!

LIKE the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy shrine,
And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm!
Erin! O Erin! thus bright through the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears!

The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising when others are set;

And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full moon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin! O Erin! though long in the shade,

Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade!

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Erin! O Erin! thy winter is past,

And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last!

DRINK TO HER.

DRINK to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh;

The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone!

By other fingers play'd,
It yields not half the tone.

Then here's to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy!
At beauty's door of glass

When wealth and wit once stood,
They ask'd her, "which might pass?"
She answer'd, "He who could."
With golden key wealth thought
To pass-but 'twould not do:
While wit a diamond brought
Which cut his bright way through!
Then here's to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy!

The love that seeks a home

Where wealth and grandeur shines

Is like the gloomy gnome

That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,

Though woman keeps it here!
Then drink to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,

The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy!

OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.*

Oн blame not the bard if he flies to the bowers

Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart, †

*We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards whom Spencer so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, "were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue."

It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert.

And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart!
But alas! for his country-her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken which never would bend.
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend. Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;

Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch that would light them through dignity's way Must be caught from the pile where their country expires! Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's soft dream,

He should try to forget what he never can heal;

Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he 'll feel! That instant his heart at her shrine would lay down

Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored,
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.*
But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin! shall live in his songs,
Not even in the hour when his heart is most gay
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs!
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;

The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive and weep!

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

WHILE gazing on the moon's light,

A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs that more bright

In lone and distant glory burn'd.
But too far

Each proud star

For me to feel its warming flame

Much more dear

That mild sphere

Which near our planet smiling came; +
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own-

While brighter eyes unheeded play,

* See the Hymn attributed to Alcæus, "I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius and Aristogiton," &c.

"Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together."-Whiston's Theory, &c.

I'll love those moonlight looks alone,
Which bless my home and guide my way!

The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meek,
Illumined all the pale flowers,

Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek.
I said, (while

The moon's smile

Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss,)
"The moon looks

On many brooks,

The brook can see no moon but this; *
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.

ILL OMENS.

WHEN day-light was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still ling'ring shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon!

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brush'd him—he fell, alas! never to rise

"Ah! such," said the girl," is the pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies!"

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!"

*This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: "The moon looks upon many nightflowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.'