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AIR~The Fox's Sleep.

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 pray’r to the Spirit above,

Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

1 These words allude to a story in an old Irish manuscript, which is too long and too melancholy to be inserted here.

Oh! bless'd 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 soul of music shed,
Now ngs 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!


Air-Planaty Kelly.

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 links 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!


i Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.

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