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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 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,

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.


But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile :

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,

And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear!
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!

If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind.
But they who have loved the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed ;
And the heart that has slumbered in friendship securest

Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.
But send round the bowl ; while a relic of truth

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,-
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,

And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.


Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.*


Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ;

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“In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII., an act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give tne preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Or this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired." --Walker's Historica, Mentoirs of Irish Bards, page 134. Mr. Walker informs us also that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish minstrels.

+ This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote :-"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example

But oh ! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.
“Lady, dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold
As not to be tempted by woman or gold ?”
“Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm :
For, though they love women and golden store,
Sir Knight ! they lovė honour and virtue more."
On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle ;
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.


As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting :
Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain;
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; +
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and costly dress, undertook a journey alone from one end of the kingdorn to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book 1o.

*"The Meeting of the Waters” forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807.

The rivers Avon and Avoca.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no—it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.



“OH! haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark, ere morning smile ;
For on thy deck, though dark it be,

A female form I see ;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."


O Father ! send not hence my bark,
Through wintry winds and billows dark;
I come with humble heart to share

Thy morn and evening prayer :
Nor mine the feet, O holy Saint !
The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurned ;
The winds blew fresh, the bark returned ;
But legends hint that had the maid

Till morning's light delayed,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

* In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernia, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party : he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an ingel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer :

Cui præsul, quid fæminis
Commune est cum monachis?
Nec ti nec ullam aliam
Admittemus in insulam.

See the Acta Sanct. Hib. p. 610. According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny this metamorphose indignantly

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee. And, as I watch the line of light, that plays

Along the smooth wave t’ward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays,

And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.



Take back the virgin page,

White and unwritten still ;
Some hand, more calm and sage,

The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come as pure as light,

Pure as even you require ;
But oh! each word I write

Love turns to fire.

Yet let me keep the book;

Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,

Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;

Like you, too bright and fair ;
To let wild passion write

One wrong wish there.

Haply, when from those eyes

Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise

Towards you and home;
Fancy may trace some line

Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,

Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as, o'er ocean far,

Seamen their records keep,
Led by some hidden star

Through the cold deep;
So may the words I write

Tell through what storms I stray-
You still the unseen light

Guiding my way.

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