Yet still thy features wore that light As streams that run o'er golden mines, Nor seem to know the wealth that shines And that which charmed all other eyes If souls could always dwell above, To live with them is far less sweet BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.† By that Lake whose gloomy shore 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, She had loved him well and long, Still her eyes before him burned. * I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, "Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!" This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow. There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c. H On the bold cliff's bosom cast, Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er Fearless she had tracked his feet SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, He had lived for his love, for his country he died, Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, NAY, TELL ME NOT. NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul; The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bow! They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower, That drank of the floods Distilled by the rainbow decline and fade ; Of ruby had dyed All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! AVENGING AND BRIGHT. AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin* For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade. The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri; or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr. O'Flarragan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the "Darthula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story," says Mr. O'Flanagan, "has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, 'The Death of the Children of Touran,' 'The Death of the Children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Denans), and this 'The Death of the Children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story.' At the commencement of these Melodies will also be found a ballad upon the story of the Children of Lear, or Lir; "Silent, ( Moyle!" &c. " Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gent eman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit. By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,* We swear to revenge them !-no joy shall be tasted, WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET. He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew, Through the leaves that close embower it, She. What the bank, with verdure glowing, She. But, they say, the bee's a rover, Who will fly when sweets are gone ; He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, LOVE AND THE NOVICE. "HERE we dwell in holiest bowers, Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; So like is thy form to the cherubs above, Love stood near the Novice and listened, And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; "Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."-Deirdri's Song. ↑ Ulster. His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened; "Who would have thought," the urchin cries, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES THIS life is all chequered with pleasures and woes, Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.* O THE SHAMROCK! THROUGH Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valour wandered, With Wit, the sprite, Whose quiver bright * Proposito florem prætunt officio. -Propert. lib. i. eleg. £a. |