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Too fast have those young days faded, That, even in sorrow, were sweet? Does Time with his cold wing wither

Each feeling that once was dear?Then, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,'
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine-
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,

Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,2
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory—
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the sweet hours have fleeted,
When Sorrow herself look'd bright;
If thus the fond hope has cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus, too, the cold world wither

Each feeling that once was dearCome, child of misfortune! come hither, I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
AIR-Luggelaw.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full quire of Heaven is near,-
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, bless'd sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 't was like the stealing
Of summer wind through some wreathed shell-
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell!

'T was whisper'd balm-'t was sunshine spoken!I'd live years of grief and pain,

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, bless'd sounds again!

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

AIR-O Patrick! fly from me. WHEN first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee,

Our Wicklow Gold-Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, the character bere given of them.

2. The bird baving got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The Prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it: but, as be approached, the bird took wing, and settled again, etc.-Arabian Nights, Story of Kummir al Zummaun and the Princess of China.

And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.

I saw thee change, yet still relied,

Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go-

The heart, whose hopes could make a
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it:

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled the unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,-

Some day, perhaps, thou 'It waken
From pleasure's dream, to know

The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;

The few who loved thee once have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,

No genial ties enwreathe it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!
Go-go-though worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.
Go-go-'t is vain to curse,

'T is weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

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This alludes to a kind of Irish Fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk:-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I bad thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprochaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel O'Donnel), has given a very different account of that goblin.

Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing

At once may spring

To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin!-farewell all
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade

The brows with victory glowing!
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we 've tried

Are by our side,

And the foe we hate before us! Farewell, Erin!-farewell all Who live to weep our fall!

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

AIR-Lough Sheeling.

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still

here;

Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last!

Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory and

shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt 's in that heart,

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!

Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss, And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, And shield thee, and save thee, or-perish there too!

"T IS GONE, AND FOR EVER.
AIR-Savournah Deelish.

"T is gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead—
When man, from the slumber of ages awaking,

Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled! 'T is gone-and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning, And, darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting Around thee, through all the gross clouds of the world;

When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.'

The Sun-burst was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the royal banner.

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From the heaven of wit
Draw down all its lightning!
Fill the bumper, etc.

Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us.
Fill the bumper, etc.

The careless Youth, when up
To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup

To bide the pilfer'd fire in :-
But oh his joy! when, round,
The halls of heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.

Fill the bumper, etc.

Some drops were in that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul

Mix'd their burning treasure!
Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us—
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper, etc.

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY!
AIR-New Langolee.

DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee;
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long.'
When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee.,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 't is thy glory alone;

I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.

In that rebellious but beautiful song. When Erin first rose.. there is, if I recollect right, the following line:

The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep! The chain of silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of bostilities, shook the chain of silence, and flung themselves among the ranks. See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Morai, in Miss BROOKE's Reliques of Irish Poetry.

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No VII.

IF I had consulted only my own judgment, this Work would not have been extended beyond the Six Numbers already published; which contain, perhaps, the flower of our National Melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve (and it will be seen, trust, that they are numerous and valuable), I would gladly have left to future poets to glean; and, with the ritual words tibi trado, would have delivered up the torch into other hands, before it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I understand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs, the suppression of which, for the enhancement of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies.

MY GENTLE HARP!

AIR-The Coina, or Dirge.

My gentle Harp! once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,

T. M.

And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken, But-like those harps, whose heavenly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spokenThou hang'st upon the willows still. And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded

With hopes-that now are turn'd to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.

Then who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping harp! from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When even the wreaths in which I dress thee!
Are sadly mix'd-half-flowers, half chains!
But come-if yet thy frame can borrow

One breath of joy-oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be;

One gentleman, in particular, whose name I shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us near forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious fragments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions, current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of oar task.

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WREATHE THE BOWL.

AIR-Noran Kista.
WREATHE the bowl

With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us! Should Love amid

The wreaths be hid

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, No danger fear,

While wine is near

We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
We'll take a flight

Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!

'T was nectar fed Of old, 't is said, Their Junos, Joves, Apollos; And man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt 's as follows:
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
Then bring wit's beam

To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar, splendid!
So, wreathe the bowl

With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!

Say, why did Time
His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,

When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly!
Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we'd sever,
Make pleasure glide

In double tide,

And fill both ends for ever!
Then wreathe the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us!
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!

WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES.
Ara-Father Quinn.

WHENE ER I see those smiling eyes,
All fill'd with hope, and joy, and light,

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