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In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,
At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender.
And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.
But tho' they were even more bright than the queen
Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,
Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,
Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare.
Oh think what a world we should have of it here,
If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee,
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,

And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and brief,

To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool, who would quarrel for diff'rence of hue, Deserves not the comfort then shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the neretic girl of my soul should I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No: perish the hearts, and the laws that try

Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.3

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,

Where the cliff hangs high and steep
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

"Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,

Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.

Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.

But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:

Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late)

Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT

OH! think not my spirits are always as light,

And as free from a pang as they seem to you now;
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.
No:-life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touched by the thorns.
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile—

May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwined;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,

When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind.
But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd;
And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest,
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd.

But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth

Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,-
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,
And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

SHE sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,

As if to feed, with their soft fire,

The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burn'd,

Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew; And, when to gaze again I turn'd,

The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. As if her light and heav'n's were one, The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone, As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever lov'd, but had the thought
That he and all he lov'd must part?
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart-
And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?
"Oh light of youth's resplendent day!
"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,

And thus, like sunshine, die away?

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.

OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;
And the lip which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But alas for his country!-her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learn'd to betray;

Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.

Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget, what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope-let a vista but gleam

Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!
That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down.
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd;

While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.

But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep.

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