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Music! oh! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell !
When thou can breathe her soul so well!
Love's are ev’n more false than they;
Can sweetly sooth, and not betray!
IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MO.
AIR--- The Sixpence.”
It is not the tear at this moment shed, *
him, That can tell how belov'd was the soul that's
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him: 'Tis the tear through many a long day wept,
Through a life by his loss all shaded, 'Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept,
When all other griefs are faded !
Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's
light, While it shines thro’ our hearts will improve
them; * These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Ma.
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more
bright, When we think how we liv'd but to love
them! And, as buried saints the grave perfume,
Where, fadeless they've long been lying, So our hearts shall borrow a sweet’ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!
THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.
AIR“ Gang fane.”
'Tis believ'd that this Harp which I now wake
for thee, Was a Syren, of old, who sung under the sea, And who often at eve thro' the bright billow
rov'd, To meet on the green shore a youth whom she
But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to
weep, And in tears, all the night her gold ringlets to
steep, Till heav'n look’d, with pity, on true-love so
warm, And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smil'd
While her sea-beauties gracefully curled round
the frame! And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its
bright rings, Fell over her white arms, to make the gold
strings !* Hence it came that this soft Harp so long hath
been known, To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad
tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond
lay To be love, when I'm near thee, and grief, when
Oh! the days are gone, when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove
Was love, still love !
And days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam; * This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, by Mr. Hudson, of Dublin.
But there's nothing half so sweet in life,
As love's young dream!
Though the bard to a purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
To smile at last;
A joy so sweet
In all his noon of fame,
His soul-felt flame,
The one loy'd name!
Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love trac'd !
On memory's waste !
As soon as shed,
'Twas morning's winged dream! 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream! Oh! 'twas light, that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
THE PRINCE'S DAY.*
AIR_“St. Patrick's Day.''
Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll for
get them, And smile through our tears like a sunbeam
in show'rs; There never were hearts, if our rulers would
let them, More form’d to be tranquil and blest than ours!
But, just when the chain
Has ceas'đ to pain, And hope has enwreath'd it round with flow'rs,
There comes a new link
Our spirits to sink! Oh! the joy of such hearts, like the light of the
poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay: But though 'twere the last little spark in our
souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's day.
Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you
are true; And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
* This song was written for a fete in honour of the Prince of Wales' birth day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, last year, (1810), at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.