Page images
PDF
EPUB

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

THERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing.
And lamps from every casement shown ;
While voices blithe within are singing,

That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay ;
Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the siren call obey.

And see-the lamps still livelier glitter,
The siren lips more fondly sound ;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
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, LOVED ARRANMORE.

OH! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore,

How oft I dream of thee,

And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wander'd young and free.

Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,

With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danc'd along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,

Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing; -*

That Eden, where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,-

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.

*«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!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,-
As sunny and as vain !

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,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,
That sword which he lov'd still unbroke in its
sheath,

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.

[ocr errors]

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

[ocr errors][merged small]

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!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing through air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,

Whenever they wish to use it;
So in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy

Break forth whenever we choose it.

P

While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,

Such shadows will all be omitted :-
Unless they are like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun,
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
Each spot where it hath flitted!

THE WINE CUP IS CIRCLING.

THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,*
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining,
When, hark! that shout

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.

« PreviousContinue »