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When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of sun-shine, with heart

full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the

way'. Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and

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 weavés

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the

leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

1 Proposito florem prætulit officio.

Propert. Lib. i. Eleg. 2.

OH, THE SHAMROCK!

Air--Alley Croker.

THROUGH Erin's Isle,

To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander'd,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd;

Where'er they pass,
A triple grass!

· St. Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the 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.”

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As emeralds, seen Through purest crystal gleaming! Oh 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!" Oh 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! Oh the Shamrock, the green immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

AIR-Molly, my Dear.

Ar the mid hour of night, when stars are weep

ing, I fly, To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm

in thine eye! And I think that, if spirits can steal from the

region of air To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come

to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd even in the

sky!

Then I sing the wild song, which once 'twas

rapture to hear, When our voices, both mingling, breathed like

one on the ear;

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