They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses of birth divine;

He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,

That drank of the floods

Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide

Of ruby had dy'd

All blush into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, The bowl but brightens my love for thee!

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.*

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!—

For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

* The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called 'Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach,' which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr O'Flanagan, (see vol. 1 of the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the Darthula' of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Connor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story," says Mr O'Flanagan, "has been from

By the red cloud that hung over Connor's dark dwel

ling,*

When + Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in

gore

By the billows of war, which, so often high swelling, Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore

We swear to revenge them!—no joy shall be tasted, The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,

Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted, Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head!

Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections, Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall; Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,

Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

time immemorial held in high repute, as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, The death of the children of Touran ;''The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans); and this,' The death of the children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." It will be recollected that, in another part of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir; 'Silent, O Moyle.'

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of these gentlemen did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they merit.

* "O Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.”—DEIRDRI'S Song.

+ Ulster.

WHAT THE BEE IS.

He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey dew,

Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

She.What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

She. But, they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly when sweets are gone,
And when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.

He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
"Tis but right that bees and brooks

Should sip and kiss them while they may

66

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

HERE we dwell in holiest bowers,

“Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers

"To Heaven in mingled odor ascend.

"Do not disturb our calm, O Love!

"So like is thy form to the cherubs above, "It well might deceive such hearts as ours.'

Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint ;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.

"Who would have thought," the urchin cries,
"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
"His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking or sleeping,

Young Novice! to him all thy orisons rise; He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping, He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs. Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, And angels themselves would admit such a guest, If he came to them cloth'd in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D.

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep;
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried ;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Thro' fields full of light, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.* Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have

wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet - while Idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

OH THE SHAMROCK.

THROUGH Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,

As Love and Valor wander'd,
With Wit the sprite,

Whose quiver bright,

A thousand arrows squander'd ;

Where'er they pass,

A triple grass t

Shoots up with dew-drops streaming,

Proposito florem prætulit officio.

PROPERT. lib. i. eleg. 20.

↑ St Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trofoil, to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in ex