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Though the bard to purer fame may soar,

When wild youth's past;
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,

To smile at last;
He'll never meet

A joy so sweet

In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear

The one-loved name.

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,

Which first love has traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On Memory's waste!
'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's winged dream! 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream! Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream!

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Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll for

get them,
And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam

in showers;
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let

More form’d to be grateful and blest than ours!

But, just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,

1 This song was written for a fète in honour of the Prince of Wales's birth-day, given by my friend, Major BRYAN, last year (1810), at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink!Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the

poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But though’twere the last little spark in our souls,

We must light it up now, on our Prince's day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you

are true! And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array;

The standard of green

In front would be seen.Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd

this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it, When roused by the foe, on her Prince's day. He loves the green isle, and his love is recorded In hearts which have suffer'd too much to

forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment re

warded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light to the last, And thus, Erin, my country! though broken thou

art, There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will

decay; A spirit, that beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's



Air-The Song of Sorrow.

WBEP on, weep on, your hour is past;

Your dreams of pride are o’er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,

And you are men no more!
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn’d in vain: Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,

It never lights again!

Weep on-perhaps in after days

They'll learn to love your name; And many a deed may wake in praise

That long hath slept in blame!

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