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Like fairy-gifts fading away Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou
art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will; And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervoar and faith of a soul can be known
To which time will but make thee more dear! Oh! the heart that has truly loved, never forgets ,
But as truly loves on to the close; . As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets.
The same look which she turn'd when he rose !
Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare's holy
. . shrine,
The unextinguishable fire of St. Bridget at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions :-* « Apud Killariam occurrit And burn'd through long ages of darktiess aud
storm, . Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm! Erin! oh Erin! thus bright, through the tears Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears!
The nations have fallen, and thou still art yoring;
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set: . And, though Slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath
hung, .: The full moon of Freedom skall beam round thee
yet. Erin! oh Erin ! though long in the shade, Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour, Till the hand of Spring her dark chain unbind,
Ignis sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam sollicite moniales at sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materiâ, fovent et nutriunt ut à tempore virginis per tot annorum curribula semper inextinctus.»
Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hiloz. m. Dist. 2. c. 34.
And daylight and: liberty bless the young flowers. Erin! oh Erin! thy winter is past, And the hope, that lived through it, shall blossom
Drink to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh-
What gold could never buy!
For minstrel-hands alone;
It yields not half the tone.
Hath waked the poet's siglım.
1 Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important subject.
At Beauty's door of glass,
When Wealth and Wit once stood, They ask'd her " Which might pass ?”
She answer'd, "He who could.”. With golden key Wealth thought
To pass— but'twould not do ; While Wit, a diamond brought
Which cut his bright way through! Then here's to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sighThe girl, who gave to Song What gold could never buy!
The love, that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark gold mines": But, oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above,
Though woman keeps it here! Then drink to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sighThe girl, who gave to Song
What gold could never buy!
Oh! blame not the bard if he fly to the bowers
Where Pleasure lies carelessly smiling at Fane; He was boru for much more, and, in happier hours,
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow 2 to the warrior's
dart; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of.
We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering barıls, whom Spenser so scverely, and perhaps truly,describes in his State of Irer land, and whose poems, he tells us, «were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adora, and beautify virtue.»
a It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ircland , is derived from Yr, the Runie for a bow, in the