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 weaves 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' 1 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, 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, 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 weeping, 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; |