The minstrels have seiz'd their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers,
'Tis like the voice of the Brave of old,

Breaking forth from their place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang
As the minstrels sang,

And the Sun-burst* o'er them floated wide
While remembering the yoke

Which their fathers broke,

"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering ;
While onward mov'd, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering,

With the mingling shock

Rung cliff and rock,

While rank on rank the invaders die.

And the shout that last

O'er the dying pass'd

Was "Victory! victory!"-the Finians' cry.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

THE dream of those days when first I-sung thee is

o'er,

Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore,

* The name given to the banner of the Irish.

And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy

chains,

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;

And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd,

Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd ?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread !

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst liv'd that summit to gain, Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

FROM this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour my soul is thine :
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
Weal or woe, thy fate be mine!
When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dar'd thy rights to spurn ;
And, if now they're false and fly thee,
Shall I, too, basely turn?

No;-whate'er the fires that try thee,

In the same this heart shall burn.

Though the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now no friendly shore,

Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life, when life seems o'er.
And of those past ages dreaming,
When glory deck'd thy brow,
Oft I fondly think, though seeming
So fallen and clouded now,

Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,-
None so bright, so blest as thou.

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.*

SILENCE is in our festal halls,

Sweet Son of Song ! thy course is o'er:

In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

Her minstrel's voice responds no more; All silent as th' Eolian shell

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, When the sweet breeze, that wak'd its swell At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long

Awak'd by music's spell shall rise ;

* It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

P 2

For name so link'd with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane,

When music wafts the soul to heaven, One thought of him, whose earliest strain Was echo'd there, shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side,
He, who now weaves this parting lay,
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past.
Shall still in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,

Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown, From thee the borrow'd glory came,

And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire

His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.

SACRED SONGS.