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, The nymphs their fetters around him cast, For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, 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, LOVED ARRANMORE. OH! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy shore, Full many a path I've tried, since then, How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs With heart as bounding as the skiffs Have sought that Eden in its light That Eden, where the immortal brave 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 saddening truth! LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. LAY his sword by his side,*—it hath serv'd him too well, Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, And himself unsubdued in his grave. 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 favorite 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, "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 ÒH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD. OH could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it! Like those gay flies that wing through air, Whenever they wish to use it; Break forth whenever we choose it. P While every joy that glads our sphere Such shadows will all be omitted :- 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!" Every Chief starts up From his foaming cup, And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cr, * 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. |