TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. G-RGE R-SE.

And, like G-dw-n, write books for young masters and misses.

Oh! it is not hugh rank that can make the heart merry,

Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:

Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before
Jerry,
Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable dispatch.

The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The Translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the textbut in vain: he then tells us that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion "Melitensi rosd fartum," which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,
While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child
With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield
Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,
We've the babies in them and the thunder in you!

Clerk next favors us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if " Rosa munda" mean "a Rose with clean hands," it may be found applicable to the Right Honorable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the "Rosa aurea," which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words "old Rose," he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the Poet "consenuisse Rosas." The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses, that is quite edifying.

TO

THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF

DONEGAL.

It is now many years since, in a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honor on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under vour protection, and am,

With perfect sincerity,
Your Ladyship's ever attached Friend,
THOMAS MOORE.

PREFACE.

THOUGH an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "animæ dimidium," in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.

The Advertisements which were prefixed to the different numbers, the Prefatory Letter upon Music, &c., will be found in an Appendix at the end of the Melodies.

IRISH MELODIES.

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 fovest
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,
When thine eye reposes
On its ling'ring 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.

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

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it

weeps,

Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;

Mononia! when Nature embellish'd 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
Wood,

They stirr'd not, but conquer'd 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.

1 Brien Borombe, 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 en

gagements.

• Munster.

The palace of Brien.

This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrapted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpat

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 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.

rick, prince of Ostory. 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." "Between 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 xii. chap. i.

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.

1 Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,1
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 touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhileMay 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 slumber'd 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 de

WORE.

RICH and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ;
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 woman and golden store, "Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more !"

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS."

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.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;

"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, vir tue, and religion, by the great example 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 a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom 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 honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i., book x.

3 "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. 4 The rivers Avon and Avoca.