THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH. THERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, That seem to say "Come," in every tone. And see-the lamps still livelier glitter, Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, And, their laughing eyes, the while, concealing, — Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, Was like that rock of the Druid race, * Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power could n't cast from its base. The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations. OH! ARRANMORE, LOV'D ARRANMORE. OH! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore, And of those days when, by thy shore, How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs With heart as bounding as the skiffs Or, when the western wave grew bright That Eden, where th' immortal brave Dwell in a land serene,— Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories."-BEAUFORT's Ancient Topography of Ireland. Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth! Are like the hopes I built in youth, — LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. LAY his sword by his side, *—it hath serv'd him too well, To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Yet pause-for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains; Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, — "It hath victory's life in it yet! *It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them. "Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, 66 "Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 'But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use "Of a falchion like thee on the battle-plain, "Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS. Он, could we do with this world of ours Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, So in this world I'd make for thee, Break forth whenever we choose it. While ev'ry joy that glads our sphere : Such shadows will all be omitted:. Each spot where it hath flitted! THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, From the vale without, * "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh! Ev'ry Chief starts up From his foaming cup, And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry. * The palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the County of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends. |