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WHEN IN DEATH I SHALL CALM RECLINE.
When in death I shall calm recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear, Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue while it linger'd here: Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and light; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn to night.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door
Where weary travellers love to call':
' In every house was one or two harps free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music. -O'Halloran.
Then, if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o’erflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest; Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest! But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him. HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.
Air—The Black Maid.
How oft has the Benshee cried!
Sweet bonds entwined by Love! Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth! Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth!
Long may the fair and brave
We've fallen upon gloomy days!
1 I have endeavoured here without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to that sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aid of talent and integrity.
Ev'ry bright name that shed
Light o'er the land is filed. Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth Lost joy or hope, that ne'er returneth;
But brightly flows the tear, Wept o'er the hero's bier!
Oh! quench'd are our beacon lights,
Truth, peace, and freedom hung?! Both mute—but long as valour shineth, Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride
2 This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a Poem, by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Nial, which is quoted in the “ Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland,” p. 433. “ Con, of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories!"
3 Fox, ultimus Romanorum.
WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.
We may roam through this world like a child at
a feast, Who but sips of a sweet and then flies to the
rest, And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings, and be off to the west; But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,
Are the dearest gift that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Green Isle
For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd Through this world, whether eastward or west
ward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes
round, Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at