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THE LEGACY
When in death I shall calm recline,

Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear!
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

Of the brightest hue, while it lingered here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow

To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hlang it up at that friendly door

Where weary travellers love to call.*
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,

Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken

Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,

To grace your revel when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blessed.
But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then my spirit around shall lover,

And hallow each drop that foams for him.

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Benshee cried !
How oft has death united
Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;

Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave !
We're fallen upon gloomy days ! +
Star after star decays,
Every bright name that shed

Light o'er the land is fied.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth :

But brighty flows the tear

Wept o'er a hero's bier. In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in music."-O'Halloran.

† I have encieavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

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Quenched are our beacon lights-
Thou, of the Hundred Fights !*
Thou, on whose burning tongue

Truth, peace, and freedom hung !+
Both mute, --but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they lived and died.

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD. We may roam through this world, like a child at a feast,

Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,

We may order our wings, and be off to the west ; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, We never need leave our own green isle,

For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,

Through this world whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home. In England, the garden of Beauty is kept

By a dragon of prudery, placed within call; But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept

That the garden's but carelessly watched after all.
Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence

Which round the flowers of Erin dwells ;
Which warms the touch, while winning the sense,

Nor charms us least when it most repels.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,

Through this world whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home. In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail

On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,

But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye. While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, Through billows of woe and beams of joy,

The same as he looked when he left the shore.

* This designation, which has been applicd to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero in a poem by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Neil, which is quoted in the "Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland,” page 433:—“Con of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories !"

| Fox, "ultimus Romanorum."

Then remember, wherever your goblet is crowned,

Through this world whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,

Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

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EVELEEN'S BOWER.
OH! weep for the hour

When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came ;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night,
And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame

The clouds passed soon

From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;

But none will see the day

When the clouds shall pass away
Which that dark hour left on Eveleen's fame.

The white snow lay

On the narrow pathway
When the Lord of the Valley crossed over the moor ;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint
Showed the track of his footsteps to Eveleen's door.

The next sun's ray

Soon melted away
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came

But there's a light above

Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.
LET Erin remember the days of old,

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her ;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold *

Which he won from her proud invader ;
When her kings, with standard of green unfurled,

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ; +
Ere the emerald gem of the western world

Was set in the crown of a stranger.
This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the monarch of Ireland
in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their
champions, whom he encountered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of
gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies
of his victory."—Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book 9.

"Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland : long before the birth of Christ, we find an hereditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidke na Craoibhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,

When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days

In the wave beneath him shining;
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,

Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time

For the long-faded glories they cover.*

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. I
SILENT, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter,

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furled ?
When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world ?
Sadly, O Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,

Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,

Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above?

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.
COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief

To simpleton sages and reasoning fools;

Teagh na Craoibhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier."-O'Halloran's Introduction, &c., part i. chap. 5.,

* It was an old tradition, in the time of Gimldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquæ illius turres ecclesiasticas, quæ more patriæ arctæ sunt et altæ, necnon et rotundæ, sub undis manifeste sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus reique causas admirantibus frequenter ostendunt."--Topogr. Hib., dist. ii. c. 9.

To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Insh, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.

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This moment's a flower too fair and brief

To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue ;

But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl, The fool that would quarrel for difference of hue

Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shali I give up the friend I have valued and tried,

If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No, perish the hearts and the laws that try

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

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SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.
SUBLIME was the warning that Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke

Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
O Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west;
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor oh be the Shamrock of Erin forgot,

While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain !
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same.
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath

For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain !
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find

That repose which at home they had sighed for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame which you light
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright;
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause

Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain !
God prosper the cause !-oh it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain.
Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die !
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave

Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain !

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