But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing! The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood. QUICK! We have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may; Then, quick! we have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may; See the glass, how it flushes, 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, For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd, 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. Fields, where the Spring delays, Of the warm Summer's gaze, With only her tears to guard her. 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, Should haply be stealing o'er thee, O'er pride itself victorious- What Heaven had made so glorious. THE PRINCE'S DAY. THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, But just when the chain Has ceas'd to pain, And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, Our spirits to sink Oh the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls, Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; 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, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, ་ He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray; 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, Then, sound notes-the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest! ว 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,- 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! |