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But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing

The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood.
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian
As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.

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QUICK! We have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon❜d,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
For oh, not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.

Then, quick! we have but a second,

Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,

If ever thou see'st that day,

When a cup or lip shall woo thee,

And turn untouch'd away!

Then quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may;

For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!

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FAIREST, PUT ON AWHILE.

FAIREST! put on awhile

These pinions of light I bring thee,

And o'er thy own Green Isle

In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset, hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays,
And fearlessly meets the ardour

Of the warm Summer's gaze,

With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning;

Like some bold warrior's brows

That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,

That never hath bird come nigh them,

But from his course through air

He hath been won down by them;

Types, sweet maid, of thee,

Whose look, whose blush inviting,

Never did Love yet see

From Heav'n, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,

And caves where the gem is sleeping,

Bright as the tears thy lid

Lets fall in lonely weeping.

Glens, where Ocean comes,

To 'scape the wild wind's rancour,

And Harbours, worthiest homes

Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land

Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,

O'er pride itself victorious-
Thinking how man hath curst

What Heaven had made so glorious.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.

THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain

Has ceas'd to pain,

And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,
There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink

Oh the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;

But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!

Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle-array,

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen,—

Oh, my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,

And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts; which have suffer'd too much to forget;
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray;
Each fragment will cast

A light, to the last,

And thus, Erin, my country, tho' broken thou art, There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

STRIKE the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye
Obey the mute call, and heave into motion.

Then, sound notes-the gayest, the lightest,

That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest!
Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wak'ning its spell, even stone would be stirr'd, And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,-
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!-to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding-
Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,

Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather, Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May. And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

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