NA

of St. Augustine) from which the wine of error might be administered. To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hostility owards England-to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered!*-to such men I shall not deign to apologise for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description-I beg of these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers-it is found upon the pianofortes of the rich and the educated-of those who can afford to have their national zeal a little stimulated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their justice.

Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of the airs, by the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music; and, far from agreeing with those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old manuscripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more highly coloured and more curiously ornamented.

In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed as

"This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (TраπEŠOπolos) to Alexander the Great."-Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypoth., lib. i

+ The word chromatic" might have been used here, without any violence its meaning,

Erin! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,
And form in Heaven's sight
One arch of peace!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

OH! breathe not his name; let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonoured his relics are laid ;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps.
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps:
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say, wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree ;

For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls

The soul of music shed

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

M

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.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet; 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

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,—
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night that oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet; the fount that played
In times of old through Ammon's shade,"
Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near,

And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,

Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,—

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?

OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

Oi! 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 touched by the thorns.

* Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.

Y

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!

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwined ;
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 loved the fondest, the purest,

Too often have wept o'er the dream they believed;
And the heart that has slumbered in friendship securest
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceived.

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 decline.

THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW
I SEE.

THOUGH the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.

To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.*

·RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.t
RICH and rare were the gems she wore,

And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

"In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII., an act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired."-Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, page 134. Mr. Walker informs us also that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish minstrels.

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote :-"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example

But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.

"Lady, dost thou not fear to stray,

So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold

As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm:

For, though they love women and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more."

On she went, and her maiden smile

In safety lighted her round the green isle ;
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 WATERS MAY GLOW.
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,

While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting:

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain;
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.*

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; +
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart

Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and costly dress, undertook a journey alone from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."-Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i.

book ro.

"The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot in the summer of the year 1807. †The rivers Avon and Avoca.