Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,

The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bathed the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods

Distilled by the rainbow decline and fade ;
While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed

All blushed into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin
On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed-

For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

*The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri; or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr. O'Flarragan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the "Darthula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story," says Mr. O'Flanagan, "has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, 'The Death of the Children of Touran,' 'The Death of the Children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Denans), and this "The Death of the Children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story." At the commencement of these Melodies will also be found a ballad upon the story of the Children of Lear, or Lir; Silent, O Moyle !" &c.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,*
When Ulad's + three champions lay sleeping in gore--
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,

Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore—

We swear to revenge them !-no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head!
Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;"
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey-dew,

Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

She.-What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

She. But, they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly when sweets are gone ;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.

He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
'Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

"HERE we dwell in holiest bowers,

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
To heaven in mingled odour ascend.

Do not disturb our calm, O Love!
So like is thy form to the cherubs above,
It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

Love stood near the Novice and listened,

And Love is no novice in taking a hint ;

* "Oh Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."-Deirdri's Song.

† Ulster.

His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened;
His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint.

"Who would have thought," the urchin cries,
"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"
Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest,
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUERED WITH PLEASURES
AND WOES.

THIS life is all chequered with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep-
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of light, with heart full of play,
Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.*
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted
And left their light urns all as empty as mine.
But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves
These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see
One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for m

O THE SHAMROCK!

THROUGH Erin's Isle,

To sport awhile,

As Love and Valour wandered,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. i. eleg. so.

IRISH MELODIES.

A thousand arrows squandered;
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass *

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green

As emerald seen

Through purest crystal gleaming.

O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

Says Valour," See,
They spring for me,

Those leafy gems of morning!"-
Says Love, "No, no,
For me they grow,
My fragrant path adorning."

But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,

And cries, "Oh! do not sever

A type that blends

Three godlike friends,

Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!"

O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

So firmly fond

May last the bond

They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall

One drop of gall

On Wit's celestial feather!

May Love, as twine

His flowers divine,

Of thorny falsehood weed 'em!

May Valour ne'er

His standard rear

Against the cause of Freedom!

O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock !

363

* Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass, in her hand.”

356

IRISH MELODIES.

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
And I whose star,

More glorious far,

Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!-till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light,

He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.—
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard
"Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under ;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;

And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!"

THE SONG OF O'RUARK,

PRINCE OF BREFFNI.*

THE valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;

Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me
That saddened the joy of my mind.

* These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland, if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran :-"The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns." The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. 'Such," adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), "is the variable and fickle nature of women, by whom all mischiefs in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy."

Mac