And there hung the lute, that could soften While the hand, that had waked it so often, There was a time, falsest of women! When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man through a million of foemen, Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! While now-oh! degenerate daughter Of Erin! how fall'n is thý fame! And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, ' Thy country shall bleed for thy shame. Already, the curse is upon her, And strangers her vallies profane; OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN. AIR-Sheela na Guira. OH! had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean far off and alone; Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers. Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joys that life elsewhere can give! There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, We should love, as they loved, in the first golden time; The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there! With affection as free From decline as the bowers; And with Hope, like the bee, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on holy and calm as the night! FAREWELL!-BUT, WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR. AIR Moll Roone. FAREWELL!-but, whenever you welcome the hour, That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend, who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return-not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd his path-way of pain But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you. And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night; Shall join in your revels, your sports and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles! Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice had murmur'd, "I wish he were here!" Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which he cannot destroy, Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. |