No. IX. SWEET INNISFALLEN. AIR-The Captivating Youth. SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine! Ilow fair thou art let others tell, While but to feel how fair is mine! Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, And long may light around thee smile, As soft as on that evening fell When first I saw thy fairy isle! Thou wert too lovely then for one Who had to turn to paths of careWho had through vulgar crowds to run, And leave thee bright and silent there: No more along thy shores to come, But on the world's dim ocean tost, Dream of thee sometimes as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost! Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like Sorrow's veil on Beauty's brow. For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But, in thy shadows, seem'st a place Where weary man might hope to rest Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's, on the day He left its shade, when every tree, Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way! Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! AIR-The Song of the Woods. 'T was one of those dreams that by music are brought, He listen'd-while high o'er the eagle's rude nest, It seem'd as if every sweet note that died here Oh forgive if, while listening to music, whose breath « Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame: <«< Even so, though thy memory should now die away, 'T will be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answering future, thy name and thy song! FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE. AIR-Cummilum. FAIREST! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume, At golden sunset, hover O'er such scenes of bloom As I shall waft thee over. Fields, where the Spring delays, And fearlessly meets the ardour With but her tears to guard her. That Love hath just been crowning. Islets so freshly fair That never bath bird come nigh them, But, from his course through air, Hath been won downward by them—1 Types, sweet maid of thee, Whose look, whose blush inviting, Never did Love yet see From heaven, without alighting. Lakes where the pearl lies hid, And caves where the diamond's sleeping, Bright as the gems that lid Of thine lets fall in weeping. Glens,3 where Ocean comes, To 'scape the wild wind's rancour, And harbours, worthiest homes Then if, while scenes so grand, So beautiful, shine before thee, In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth) De Keating says, there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil, which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock. 2 Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears; and this we find confirmed by a present made A. C. 1994, by Gill ert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls. »—O`HAL LOBAN. ' Glengariff. 315 Pride for thy own dear land Should haply be stealing o'er thee; Oh! let grief come first, O'er pride itself victoriousTo think how man hath curst What Heaven had made so glorious! QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND. AIR-Paddy Snap. QUICK! We have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may, For Time, the churl hath beckon'd, And we must away, away! For oh! not Orpheus' strain Then quick! we have but a second, See the glass, how it flushes, And half meets thine, and blushes If ever thou seest the day, When a cup or a lip shall woo thee, Then, quick! we have but a second, AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS. AND doth not a meeting like this make amends When held to the flame will steal out on the sight, And thus, as in Memory's bark we shall glide To visit the scenes of our boyhood anewThough oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining throughYet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, As he, by moonlight, went wandering o'er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight, Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As, looking down on the stream, he lay, And he saw in the clear wave the Mountain Sprite. He turn'd-but lo! like a startled bird, One night, pursued by that dazzling look, Jours charmans, quand je songe à vos heureux instans, The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend, Mr Washington Irving, in bis Bracebridge Hall, vol. i, p. 213. The pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend, is enhanced by the reflection that he is too good an American to have admitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him birth have long been such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain. «Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,» cried A gentle voice, whispering by his side, << Now turn and see,»-here the youth's delight Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite. « Of all the Spirits of land and sea,>> Exclaim'd he then, « there is none like thee; And oft, oh oft, may thy shape alight In this lonely arbour, sweet Mountain Sprite.>> AS VANQUISH'D ERIN. AIR-The Boyne Water. As vanquish'd Erin wept beside Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. «Lie hid,» she cried, « ye venom'd darts, But vain her wish, her weeping vain- And dives into that water: And brings triumphant, from beneath, His shafts of desolation, And sends them, wing'd with worse than death, Throughout her maddening nation. Alas! for her who sits and mourns, « When will this end? ye Powers of Good!» But only hears, from out that flood, The demon answer, « Never!>> DESMOND'S SONG. AIR-Unknown. By the Feal's wave benighted, Some voice whisper'd o'er me, If I loved, I was lost. Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependants, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her; and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family.» LELAND, vol. z. This air has been already so successfully supplied with words by Mr Bayly, that I should have left it untouched, if we could bave spared so interesting a melody out of our collection. Love came, and brought sorrow I would drain it with pleasure, You who call it dishonour Hath the violet less brightness No-Man, for his glory, Is told in her eyes. Through mortals his line, Beauty, born of the Graces, Ranks next to divine! THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART. AIR-Coolon Das. THEY know not my heart, who believe there can be I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. I WISH I was by that dim lake,' These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition called Patrick's Purgatory. In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, an I was the resort of penitents and pilgrims, from almost every country in Europe. It was, as the same writer tells us, one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is from strange association wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes. Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland, There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be— As they who to their couch at night Would welcome sleep, first quench the light, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown SHE SUNG OF LOVE. AIR-The Munster Man. SHE sung of love-while o'er her lyre As if to feed with their soft fire The soul within that trembling shell. Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; The minstrel's form scem'd fading too, The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr Who ever loved, but had the thought That fading image to my heart- Oh light of youth's resplendent day! SING-SING-MUSIC WAS GIVEN. AIR-The Humours of Ballamaguiry, or the Old SING-sing-Music was given To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; But love from the lips his true archery wings; To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; By harimony's laws alone are kept moving. When Love, rock'd by his mother, Till faint from his lips a soft melody broke, Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows I would quote the entire passage, but that I fear to put my own ADVERTISEMENT. National Airs. through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none, or only such as are unintelli It is Cicero, I believe, who says « natura ad modos du-gible to the generality of their hearers, is the object cimur; and the abundance of wild indigenous airs which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple but interesting kind of music are here presented with the first number of a collection, which I trust their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering, in search of the remainder of themselves, and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song. T. M. NATIONAL AIRS. No. I. A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.' Spanish Air. « A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, « I'll build in this garden-the thought is divine!» Her temple was built, and she now only wanted An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent, But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. «Oh! never,» she cried, « could I think of enshrining An image whose looks are so joyless and dim! But yon little god upon roses reclining, We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him.» So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: «Farewell,» said the sculptor, «you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship, and took away Love.» FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER. Portuguese Air. FLOW on, thou shining river; But, ere thou reach the sea, Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, Like those sweet flowers from thee. ALL THAT 'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. Indian Air. ALL that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest. Stars that shine and fall; The flower that drops in springing;These, alas! are types of all To which our hearts are clinging. But to be lost when sweetest! The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur, called La Statoe de l'Amitié.. Who would seek or prize Delights that end in aching? Who would trust to ties That every hour are breaking? Better far to be In utter darkness lying, Than be blest with light and see That light for ever flying. All that's bright must fade, The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made But to be lost when sweetest! SO WARMLY WE MET. So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, That which was the sweeter even I could not tell That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted, Or that tear of passion which bless'd our farewell. In smiles and in tears, than that moment to this. morrow Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again. THOSE EVENING BELLS. AIR-The Bells of St Petersburgh. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! Those joyous hours are past away! And so 't will be when I am gone! SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. SHOULD those fond hopes e'er forsake thee, The metre of the words is here necessarily sacrificed to the air. |