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O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tam'd his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again.

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-

Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!

Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound:-
But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!

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NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost—
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;-
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

HAS sorrow thy young days shaded,

As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet!
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?—
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine—
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone?

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory—
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear:
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing:

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;-

Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own lov'd island of sorrow.

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Benshee cried,

How oft has death untied

Bright links that Glory wove,

Sweet bonds entwin'd 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.

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Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.

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.

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I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I've thee before me,

With heart so warm and eyes so bright,

No clouds can linger o'er me,

That smile turns them all to light.

'Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me;

'Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless joy be shar'd with thee.

One minute's dream about thee

Were worth a long, an endless year

Of waking bliss without thee,

My own love, my only dear!

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