Too fast have those young days faded, Has love to that soul, so tender, Allured by the gleam that shone, Has Hope, like the bird in the story, 2 If thus the sweet hours have fleeted, If thus, too, the cold world wither Each feeling that once was dear;— Come, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. No, not more welcome the fairy numbers He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,- This heart long had sleeping lain, Of summer wind through some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all my soul echoed to its spell! T was whisper'd balm-'t was sunshine spoken!- To have my long sleep of sorrow broken WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. AIR. O Patrick! fly from me. WHEN first I met thee, warm and young There shone such truth about thee, Our Wicklow Gold-Miues, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character here given of them. 2.The bird having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it, but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again, etc.-Aru haan Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of Chuna. Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, No lights of age adorn thee; The few who loved thee once have fled, And they who flatter scorn thee. No genial ties enwreathe it; I would not now surrender For all thy guilty splendour! And days may come, thou false one! yet, With smiles had still received thee, Go-go-t is vain to curse, 'Tis weakness to upbraid thee; Hate cannot wish thee worse Than guilt and shame have made thee. WHERE IS THE SLAVE? This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk:-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting Novel, O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin. Who, could he burst Would pine beneath them slowly? At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? Less dear the laurel growing, The brows with victory glowing! Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us! Farewell, Erin!-farewell all Who live to weep our fall! COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. AIR-Lough Sheeling. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last! Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame? I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart, Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or-perish there too! 'T IS GONE, AND FOR EVER. 'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the deadWhen man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! 'Tis gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And, darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee. From the heaven of wit Wouldst thou know what first For wine's celestial spirit? The living fires that warm us. The careless Youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in :— But oh his joy! when, round, The halls of heaven spying, Amongst the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying. Fill the bumper, etc. Some drops were in that bowl, Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mix'd their burning treasure! Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us- O'er that flame within us. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY! DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee: And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Hlave waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,i This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 't is thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, In that rebellious but beautiful song, When Erin first rose, there, is, if I recollect right, the following line: The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep! The chain of silence was a sort of practical figure of thetoric amant the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almbaim where the attending bards, anxious, if possible to produce a cessation of hosulities, shook the chain of silence, and flung themselves ame^* the ranks.. See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Morai, in Mai Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry. No. VII. IF I had consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have been extended beyond the Six Numbers already published; which contain, perhaps, the flower of our National Melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are numerous and valuable), I would gladly have left to future poets to glean; and, with the ritual words « tibi trado,» would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs,' the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. MY GENTLE HARP! AIR-The Coina, or Dirge. My gentle Harp! once more I waken T. M. And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But-like those harps, whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spokenThou hang'st upon the willows still. And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes-that now are turn'd to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Though joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee. peace Then who can ask for notes of pleasure, As ill would suit the swan's decline! One breath of joy-oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; One gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions, current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer ; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infiBite service to us in the prosecution of our task. How gaily, even 'mid gloom surrounding, AS SLOW OUR SHIP. As slow our ship her foamy track When round the bowl, of vanish'd years And when, in other climes, we meet And nought but love is wanting; With some we 've left behind us! As travellers oft look back, at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind us. IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. AIR-The little Harvest Rose. IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time We can love as in hours of less transport we may :Of our smiles, of our hopes, 't is the gay sunny prime, But affection is warmest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high, First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn; Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chorda, Atque vetus Thebe centum jacet obrata portis. JUVENAL. Then, then is the moment affection can sway In climes full of sun-shine, though splendid their dyes, WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH. WHEN cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved, From the path-ways of light he was tempted to roam, Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star That arose on his darkness and guided him home. From thee and thy innocent beauty first came The revealings, that taught him true Love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild, Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; And, if happiness purely and glowingly smiled On his evening horizon, the light was from thee. And though sometimes the shade of past folly would rise, And though Falsehood again would allure him to stray, Hle but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, And the folly, the falsehood soon vanished away. As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim, At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him, He but flew to that smile, and rekindled it there. REMEMBER THEE! AIR-Castle Tirowen. REMEMBER thee! yes, while there 's life in this heart, Wert thou all that I wish thee,-great, glorious, and free First flower of the earth and first gem of the sea,- No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, WREATHE THE BOWL. AIR-Noran Kista. WREATHE the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! Should Love amid The wreaths be hid That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear, While wine is near, We'll drown him if he stings us. Then wreathe the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us; We'll take a flight Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! 'T was nectar fed Of old, 't is said, And man may brew His nectar too, Let looks of bliss Then bring wit's beam To warm the stream, With flowers of soul, |