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But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on Victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,

Where we tam'd his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain, like that we broke from then.

Hark! the horn of combat calls

Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round !!

And that, when we're far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near. 2 The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,

Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing,

It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

Many a heart that now beats high,

In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound:-

But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,

To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock’s are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they're change

able too,
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different

hue.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be sure to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night clos'd around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day,

Stood few and faint, but fearless still. The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimm'd, for ever crost — Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,

When all but life and honour's lost?

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.3

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,

And valour's task, mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam

Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; If death that world's bright opening be,

Oh! who would live a slave in this ?

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath

cheer'd my way, Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round

me lay ; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love

burn'd, Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was

turn'd; Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free, And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more

dear to thee.

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd

and scorn'd, Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows

adorn'd;

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,

We are sure to find something blissful and dear,

“ The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, that out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this Democritus was not the worse physiologist, for having play. day." - Walker.

fully contended that snow was black ; nor Erasmus, in any 2 I believe it is Marmontel who says, “ Quand on n'a pas degree, the less wise, for having written an ingenious encoce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a."— There are so mium of folly. many matter-of-fact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this 3 Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland. defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments

She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in caves,

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas !

SHED.: were slaves; Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather It is not the tear at this moment shed, be,

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought That can tell how belor'd was the friend that's fled, from thee.

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.

'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept, They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are

'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded ; frail —

'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd

When all lighter griefs have faded. less pale.

Thus his memory, like some holy light, They say, too, so long thou hast worn those linger

Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them, ing chains, That deep in thy heart they have printed their For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,

When we think how he liv'd but to love them. servile stains Oh! foul is the slander, - no chain could that soul. And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume

Where buried saints are lying, subdue Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth So our hearts shall borrow a sweet’ning bloom

From the image he left there in dying ! too ! 1

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Music, oh how faint, how weak,

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

When thou canst 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 soothe and not betray.

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 speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when

away.

1 " Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” – SL. Paul, 2 Cor. iii. 17.

2 These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the

poles, Is Aash 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.

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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,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream:
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream.

Though the bard to 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 ear

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

The one lov'd name.

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Tho' 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.

While cowards, who blight

Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The Standard of Green

In front would be seen, Oh, my life on your faith! were you summon'd

this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,

When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

No,—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.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded

In hearts, which have suffer'd too much to forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment re

warded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;

Each fragment will cast

A light, to the last, — And thus, Erin, my country, tho' broken thou art,

There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay; A spirit, which beams through each suffering part,

And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

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" I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county inscription of Shenstone's, “ Heu! quanto minus est cum re- of Wicklow liquis versari quam meminisse !"

3 There are many other curious traditions concerning this This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories re- Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c. lated of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at

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Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat ;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts !
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns

One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.

Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream That ever was shed from thy form or soul;

The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs, Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl. Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah ! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, “ Heaven rest her soul !”
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.

They tell us that Love in his fairy bower

Had two blush-roses, of birth divine ; He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower, But bath'd the other with mantling wine.

Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods
Distill’d by the rainbow, decline and fade;

While those which the tide

Of ruby had dy'd All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid! Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal

One blissful dream of the heart from me; Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero

sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

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