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No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
He thinks the full quire of heav'n is near,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind through some wreathed shell; Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell ! 'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!
I'd live years of grief and pain
By such benign blessed sounds again! :
WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
AIR-O Patrick, f'y from me.
When first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
I did not dare to doubt thee.'
Still clung with hope the fonder,
But go, deceiver! go,
Trust one so false, so low,
When every tongue thy follies named, sie
I fled th' unwelcome story;
Conspired to wrong, or slight thee;
The heart, that now thy falsehood rends,
But go, deceiver! go,
From pleasure's dream, to know
Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee ;
And they who flatter-scorn thee.
No 'genial ties enwreath it;
Go-go-though worlds were thine,
One taintless tear of mine
And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever ;
On her thou'st lost for ever!
With smiles had still received thee,
Her fancy first belived thee.
Gogo— 'tis vain to curse,
Hate cannot wish thee worse
119 While History's Muse the memorial was keeping - of all that the dark hand of Destiny weävés, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
Fof hers was the story třiat blotted the leaves. But, oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, 1. When, after whole pages of sorrow and sHarne,
She saw History write, umba With a pencil of light, Bocs; ? Chat illumed, all the volume her WELLINGTON's ".. .namie, 1.6.190 Bulgari live
isto ..] «Mail, Stář of my Isle ! » said the Spirit, all
With beams such as break from her own dewy
skies ;« Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
« I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. For, though heroes I've number'd, unblest was their
lot, And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways
One dishonouring blot
' name! And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet
known : Though proud was thy task, other nations un
chaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy
own. At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou
hast stood, Go plead for the land that first cradled thy
And bright o'er the flood .
Of her tears and her blood Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON'S