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THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF
The Advertisements which were prefixed to the different numbers, the Prefatory Letter upon Music, &c. will be found in an Appendix at the end of the Melodies.
It is now many years since, in a Letter prefixed to the Third Number of the Irish Melodies, I had the pleasure of inscribing the Poems of that work to your Ladyship, as to one whose character reflected honour on the country to which they relate, and whose friendship had long been the pride and happiness of their Author. With the same feelings of affection and respect, confirmed if not increased by the experience of every succeeding year, I now place those Poems in their present new form under your protection, and am,
With perfect sincerity,
GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.
Go where glory waits thee,
Oh! still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh! then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me!
Though an edition of the Poetry of the Irish Melodies, separate from the Music, has long been called for, yet, having, for many reasons, a strong objection to this sort of divorce, I should with difficulty have consented to a disunion of the words from the airs, had it depended solely upon me to keep them quietly and indissolubly together. But, besides the various shapes in which these, as well as my other lyrical writings, have been published throughout America, they are included, of course, in all the editions of my works printed on the Continent, and have also appeared, in a volume full of typographical errors, in Dublin. I have therefore readily acceded to the wish expressed by the Proprietor of the Irish Melodies, for a revised and complete edition of the poetry of the Work, though well aware that my verses must lose even more than the "animæ dimidium,” in being detached from the beautiful airs to which it was their good fortune to be associated.
When, at eve, thou rovest
Oh! then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its ling'ring roses,
Once so lov'd by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.
When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh! then remember me.
REMEMBER the glories of Brien the brave,
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; Tho' lost to Mononia?, and cold in the grave,
OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, He returns to Kinkora 3 no more.
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid: That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, Its beam on the battle, is set;
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head. But enough of its glory remains on each sword, To light us to victory yet.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it
weeps, Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
sleeps; Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, The footstep of slavery there i
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.
WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name While the moss of the valley grew red with their Of his fault and his sorrows behind, blood,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died. Of a life that for thee was resign'd? That sun which now blesses our arms with his light, Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ;
Thy tears shall efface their decree; Oh! let him pot blush, when he leaves us to-night, For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, To find that they fell there in vain.
I have been but too faithful to thee.
1 Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was trick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th they might be allowed to fight with the rest. — “ Let stakes century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five en- (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied gagements.
to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank 2 Munster.
by the side of a sound man.' “ Between seven and eight * The palace of Brien.
hundred wounded men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, * This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foreDalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were inter- most of the troops ; — never was such another sight exhirupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpa- bited.” – History of Ireland, book xii. chap. i.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
To burn when night was near.
Oh! stay,- Oh! stay,–
As those that sparkle here?
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH
The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
As if that soul were fled. —
So glory's thrill is o'er,
Now feel that pulse no more.
OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE
ALWAYS AS LIGHT.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
OH! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you
now; Nor expect that the heart beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow. No:— life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile —
May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here, Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.
FLY NOT YET.
Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made ; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay, -Oh! stay, —
To break its links so soon.
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven
knows ! If it were not with friendship and love inter
twin'd; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When these blessings shall cease to be dear to
my mind. But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd; And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship
securest, Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd. But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be
mine, That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth, And the moonlight of friendship console our de
| Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.
On she went, and her maiden smile
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.
AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
WATERS MAY GLOW. Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind | As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile, And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes; One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, One chord from that harp, or one lock from that To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring, hair.
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting-
ray; RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, WORE.
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.S
“ Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet “ So lone and lovely through this bleak way? As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters “ Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
meet ; 4 “ As not to be tempted by woman or gold?” Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my “ Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
heart. “ No son of Erin will offer me harm:** For though they love woman and golden store, Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene “ Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more !” Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
1 " In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. “ The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are inshorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or formed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the such an impression had the laws and government of this fowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes air alone has reached us, and is universally admired." - or jewels."-"Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book x. Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. 3 « The Meeting of the Waters” forms a part of that beauWalker informs us also, that, about the same period, there tiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Min- the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a strels.
visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807. • This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:- 4 The rivers Avon and Avoca.