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 frowned 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 blushed to hear
The one loved name.

No-that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;

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.*

THOUGH 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 formed to be grateful and blest than ours.

But just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,

And hope has enwreathed 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.
Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!

Though 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,

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

И

ΚΑ

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 summoned this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.

He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffered too much to forget:
And hope shall be crowned, and attachment rewarded,
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, though 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.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past:
Your dreams of pride are o'er ;

The fatal chain is round you cast,

And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warned in vain ;-
O Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!

Weep on-perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruined aisle

Where rest at length the lord and slave,

They'll wondering ask how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?

"Twas fate," they'll say, “ a wayward fate,
Your web of discord wove;

And, while your tyrants joined in hate,
You never joined in love.

But hearts fell off that ought to twine,

And man profaned what God had given,

Till some were heard to curse the shrine
Where others knelt to Heaven."

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises.
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

Lesbia wears a robe of gold;

But all so close the nymph hath laced it Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it.

Oh my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,

My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined;

But when its points are gleaming round us,

Who can tell if they're designed

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillowed on my Nora's heart

In safer slumber Love reposes-
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina,
Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,

Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of Time, And waste its bloom away, Mary!

Yet still thy features wore that light
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er looked more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!

As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veiled beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charmed all other eyes
Seemed worthless in thine own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,

To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!*

BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.†

By that Lake whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er,+
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
"Here, at least," he calmly said,
"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,
Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had loved him well and long,
Wished him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turned,
Still her eyes before him burned.

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, "Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!"

This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;

Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be :
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had tracked 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.
Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late)
Felt her love, and mourned 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!

КИ

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.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking ;—
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own lovèd island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT.

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret ;