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Arr—My Husband's a Journey to Portugal gone.

Ne’er ask the hour—what is it to us

How Time deals out his treasures ? The golden moments, lent us thus,

Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them over could add to their blisses,

I'd number each glorious second;
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,

Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.
Then fill the cup—what is it to us

How Time bis circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's!

Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,

Till Care, one Summer's morning, Set up, among his smiling flowers,

A dial, by way of warning.

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,

As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow

stole on,
And how fast that light was going,
So fill the cup—what is it to us

How Time his circle measures ? The fairy hours we call up thus,

Obey no wand but Pleasure's!

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Air—The Humming of the Ban.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark

Where ever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark, .

More sad than those we leave behind. Each wave that passes seems to say

“ Though death beneath our smile may be, Less cold we are, less false than they, Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee.”

Sail on, sail on—through endless space

Through calm—through tempest stop no more. The stormiest sea's a resting place

To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Or, if some desert land we meet,

Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world, that else were sweet

Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.



AIR—I would rather than Ireland.

Yes, sad one of Sion—if closely resembling,

In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd up heartIf drinking deep, deep, of the same “ cup of

trembling”. - Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lieconquer'd and broken, And fall’n from her head is the once royal

crown; In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken, And “while it is day yet, her sun hath gone


1 These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

2 « Her sun is gone down while it was yet day.” Jer, xv. 9. 3 - Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken." Isa. lxii. 4.

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning,

Die far from the home it were life to behold; Like thine do her sons, in the day of their

mourning, Remember the bright things that bless'd them

of old!

Ah well may we call her, like thee,“ the For

saken 3," Her boldest are vanquish’d, her proudest are

slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they

waken, Have breathings, as sad as the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance—yet came there

the morrow, That shines out, at last, on the longest dark

night, When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery

and sorrow, Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

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