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RICH and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But oh her beauty was far beyond

Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,

"So lone and lovely through this bleak way?

"Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,

"As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
"No son of Erin will offer me harm :-

"For though they love woman and golden store,
"Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more."

On she went, and her maiden smile

In safety lighted her round the Green Isle;
And blest for ever is she who relied

Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

NE'ER ask the hour-what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?

The golden moments lent us thus,

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.

If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second:

But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon❜d.
Then fill the cup-what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one summer's morning,

Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy lov'd better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing,

Than to watch with old Care how the shadows stole on,

And how fast that light was going.

So fill the cup-what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?

The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers.
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of heaven is near,Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain,

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell.

'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!I'd live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.

DRINK.TO HER.

DRINK to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers play'd,

It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass,

When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her, "Which might pass?" She answer'd, "He who could." With golden key Wealth thought To pass-but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through. So here's to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home

Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome,

That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above,

Though woman keeps it here. Then drink to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy.

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THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r,
I could harm what I love,-as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No-beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek-'tis the soul dawning clear
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear;
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME THE NINTH CENTURY.

TO-MORROW, Comrade, we

On the battle-plain must be,

There to conquer, or both lie low!

The morning star is up,

But there's wine still in the cup,

And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go: .

We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes

A passing tear will rise,

When we think of the friends we leave lone

But what can wailing do?

See, our goblet's weeping too!

With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own; With its tears we'll chase away our own.

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