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On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still received thee,
Go-go— tis vain to curse,
Hate cannot wish thee worse
WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.
While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But, oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light, That illumed all the volume her WELLINGTON's
“ Hail, Star of my Isle!” said the Spirit, all
sparkling With beams such as break from her own dewy
. skies;“ Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
“ I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.
For, though heroes I've number'd, unblest was
their lot, And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways
But, oh! there is not
One dishonouring blot On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON's
And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet
known; Though proud was thy task, other nations un
.chaining, Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy
own. At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou
hast stood, Go plead for the land that first cradled thy
And bright o'er the flood
Of her tears and her blood Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON'S
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
Air-Pease upon a Trencher.
The time I've lost in wooing,
The light that lies
In Woman's eyes,
My only books
Were Woman's looks, . And Folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
Like him the Sprite'
Whom maids by night' Oft meet in glen that's haunted. Like him, too, Beauty won me, But, while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray
Was turn'd away. O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing?
1 This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields, at dusk ;-as long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed and in your power; but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, “ O'Donnel") has given a very different account of that goblin.