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Music! oh! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell !
Why should feeling ever speak,

When thou can breathe her soul so well!
Friendship’s balmy words may feign,

Love's are ev’n more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain.

Can sweetly sooth, and not betray!

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IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MO.

MENT SHED."

AIR--- The Sixpence.

It is not the tear at this moment shed, *
When the cold turf has just been lain o’er

him, That can tell how belov'd was the soul that's

fled,

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 !

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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.

dería,

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

lov'd.

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

form!

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Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smil'd

the same,

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

away!

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Oh! the days are gone, when beauty bright

My heart's chain wove
When my dream of life, from morn till night,

Was love, still love !
New hope may bloom,

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!
Oh! 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;
Though he win the wise who frown'd before,

To smile at last;
He'll never meet

A joy so sweet

In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's car

His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear

The one loy'd name!

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,

Which first love trac'd !
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste !
'Twas odour fled

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.

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