Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot, Nor O, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot,

While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain. If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights, Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,

If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same. And O may his tomb want a tear and a name, Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath, For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find

That repose which, at home, they had sighed for

in vain,

Join, join in our hope, that the flame which you light
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright,
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword in the long-slighted cause

Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain ! God prosper the cause !-O, it cannot but thrive, While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,

Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain. Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die! The finger of Glory shall point where they lie While, far from the footstep of coward or slave, The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave

Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain !

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING.

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young

charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts, fading away;

Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will;

And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,

That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear,
No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close !

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turn'd when he rose

ERIN, OH ERIN.

LIKE

IKE the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane,*

And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,

Whose spirit outlives them unfading and warm. Erin, O Erin, thus bright through the tears Of a long night of bondage thy spirit appears!

The nations have fallen and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, O Erin, though long in the shade,

Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwak'd by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,

And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.t Erin, O Erin, thy winter is past,

And the hope that liv'd thro' it shall blossom at last.

* The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions, "Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula sem usit inextinctus."— GIRALD. Cam. de Mirabil.

† Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important object.

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 wak'd 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 O, 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.

O BLAME NOT THE BARD.*

OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers, Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart,† And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. But alas for his country!-her pride is gone by,

And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;

* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps truly, describes in his 'State of Ireland,' and whose poems, he tells us, 'were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue.'

+ It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from YR, the Runic for a Bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: "So that Ireland (called the land of IRE, for the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now become the land of concord.--LLOYD'S State Worthies.