THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,

Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov'd.

But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep; Till heav'n look'd with pity on true-love so warm, And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.

Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smil'd the same

While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light

frame;

And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, Was chang'd to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell.

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.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

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

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream.

Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Tho' 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.

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.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.*

THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in

showers:

There never were hearts, if our rulers would let

them,

More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours. But just when the chain

Has ceas'd to pain,

And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink—

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles, Is a flash 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.

*This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.