Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh could I love thee more deeply than now?

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons-
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

WAR SONG.

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.

REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,
Tho' the days of the hero are o'er;

Tho' lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkora no more.

That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;

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

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 blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquered 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.

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;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh no,-it was something more exquisite still.

"Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest

In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease.
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,

For her's was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright;
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,

With a pencil of light

That illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's name.

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies"Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,

"I've watched for some glory like thine to arise. "For, though Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, "And unhallow'd they sleep in the crossways of Fame;"But oh! there is not

"One dishonouring blot

'On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name.

"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
"The grandest, the purest, ev'n thou hast yet known;
"Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
"Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
"At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood,
"Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
"And, bright o'er the flood

"Of her tears and her blood,

"Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!"

THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

THOUGH humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round to light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favouring ray,

Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion

Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;

Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,

And, with this, though of all other treasures bereav'd,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er receiv'd.

Then, come, if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.