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Yet let me keep the book;
Oft will my heart renew, When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you: Like you it's fair and bright ;
Like you, too bright and fair To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.
Haply when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam, Should caliner thoughts arise
To:v'rds you and hone, Fancy may trace some line
Worthy those eyes to meet ; Thoughts that not burı, but sline,
Pure, calm, and sweet.
And as the records are,
Which wand’ring seamen keep, Led by the hidden star
Through winter's deep; So may the words I write
Tell through what storms I stray, You still the unseen light Guiding my way.
WHEN IN DEATH I SHALL CALM RECLINE.
When in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Teil hier it lived upon siniles and wine
of the brightest hue while it linger’d here : Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,
To sully a beart so brilliant and light; But baliny drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn 'till nig!ıt.
When the light of my song is o’er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door
Where weary travellers love to call :'
1 In every house was one or two harps free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music.-O'Halloran
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh ! let one thouglit of its master waken
Your warmest sınile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'crflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blcst! But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.
. HOW OFT HAS THE BANSIIEE CRIED.
AIR--The Bla k Maid.
How oft has the Benshie cried !
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth!
Light o'er the land is fled.
But brightly flows the tear,
Oh ! quench'd ore our beacon lights,
1 1 have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish ch iracter which it is my object to preserve through this work, to allude to that sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aid of talent and integrity.
2 This designation, which has been appued to Lord Nelson before, is the title.given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a Poem, by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Nial, which is quoted in the « Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland, » p. 433. '« Con of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeate with thy victories ! »
Thou on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung !13
So long shall Erin's pride
WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD,
We may roam through this world like child at
a fcast, Who but sips of a sweet and then flies to the
rest, And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be set off to the
west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,
Are the dearest gift that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Green Isle
For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd