The sun, that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon OSSORY'S plain !—

Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, To find that they fell there in vain!

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

I.

ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,

Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns, with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise!

II.

ERIN! thy silent tear never shall cease,

ERIN! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,

Till, like the rainbow's light,

Thy various tints unite,

And form, in heaven's sight,

One arch of peace!

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

I.

OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade
Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid:

Sad, silent and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!

II.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps, And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.

I.

WHEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd!

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For, heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee!

II.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine:
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee!

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

I.

THE harp that once, through TARA's halls,

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on TARA's walls

As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,

So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more!

II.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of TARA swells;

The chord, alone, that breaks at night,

Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives,

Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To shew that still she lives!