of St. Augustine) from which the wine of erro. might be administered. To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hostility towards England-to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered!*—to such men I shall not deign to apologise for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description-I beg of these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers-it is found upon the pianofortes of the rich and the educated-of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimulated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their justice.

Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs, by the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music; and, far from agreeing with those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old manuscripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more highly coloured and more curiously ornamented.

In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed as

"This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (Tрare Sorocos) to Alexander the Great."-Sext Empir. Pyrrh. Hypoth, lib. i

The word chromatic" might have been used here, without any violence to its meaning.

having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns in a har; monised shape with new claims upon our interest and attention and to those who study the delicate artifices of composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, considerable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so artfully has the harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweetness to every part.

T. M.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee;
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,

Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee
Sweeter far may be ;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me.

When at eve thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,

Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
On its lingering roses,

Once so loved by thee,

Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them:
Oh! then remember me.

When around thee dying
Autumn leaves are lying,

Oh then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee-

Oh! then remember me.

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE,

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,

Though the days of the hero are o'er ;

Though lost to Mononia, † and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkora no more.

That star of the field, which so often hath poured
Its beam on the battle, is set;

But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?

No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,

That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood §
In the day of distress by our side;

While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirred not, but conquered and died.

That sun which now blesses our arms with his light
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ;-

Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain.

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.
ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,

Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam

Weep while they rise.

*Brien Borohme, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

↑ Munster.

The palace of Brien.

This alludes to an interesting circumstance relating to the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. "Let stakes," they said, "be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.' "Betweeen seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O'Halloran), pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops; never was such another sight exhibited."-History of Ireland. book 12, chap. i

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,
And form in Heaven's sight
One arch of peace!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

OH! breathe not his name; let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps.
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

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 resigned?

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 prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest 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 harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed

Now hangs 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 show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

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 played

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?

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

OH! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now: Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No;-life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.

* Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.

Y