The day had sunk in dim showers,

But midnight now, with lustre meck, Illumined all the pale flowers,

Like hope, that lights a mourner's cheek. I said (while

The moon's smile

Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss), « The moon looks

On many brooks,

The brook can see no moon but this; » And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,

For many a lover looks to thee, While oh! I feel there is but one, One Mary in the world for me.

ILL OMENS.

AIR-Kitty of Coleraine; or, Paddy's Resource. WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the billow, And stars in the heavens still lingering shone, Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow, The last time she e'er was to press it alone.

For the youth, whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,

Had promised to link the last tie before noon; And, when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen, The maiden herself will steal after it soon!

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,

A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brush'd him-he fell, alas! never to rise

« Ah! such,» said the girl, «is the pride of our faces, For which the soul's innocence too often dies!»

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease

was growing,

She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew; And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing, That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too; But, while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,

Her zoue flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost

« Ah! this means,» said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),

That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!»

BEFORE THE BATTLE.
AIR-The Fairy Queen.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life-
Oh! remember life can be

No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero to his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears!

Happy is he o'er whose decline

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: The moon looks upon may night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon..

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years:But oh! how grand they sink to rest Who close their eyes on Victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we dimm'd his glory's light!
Never let him bind again

A chain like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!'
Many a heart, that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound:-
But oh! how bless'd that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!

AFTER THE BATTLE. AIR-Thy Fair Bosom. NIGHT closed around the conqueror's way,

And lightnings show'd the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day

Stood, few and faint, but fearless still! The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,

For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'dOh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honour's lost!

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise, and give them light to die!—
There is a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

OH! 'T IS SWEET TO THINK.
AIR-Thady, you Gander.

On! 't is sweet to think that, wherever we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear;
And that, when we 're far from the lips we love,
We have but to make love to the lips we are near!'
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own

1. The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as th Danish hunters do their beverage at this day. — WALKER.

I believe it is Marmontel, who says Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a. —There are so many matter-etfact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inetsstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who wh them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-la as themselves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the wors physiologist for having playfully contended that snow was black Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having written an ingenious encomium of folly.

Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

'T were a shame, when flowers around us rise, To make light of the rest, if the rose is not there; And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,

'T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,

They are both of them bright, but they 're changeable too,

And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,

It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue! Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,

To be doom'd to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love,

We have but to make love to the lips we are near.

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

AIR.----

THROUGH grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,

Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd:
Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear
to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd;

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd; She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay`st hid in caves; Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;

Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would rather be, Than wed what I loved not, or turn one thought from

thee.

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail— Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale!

They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile

stains

Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

subdue

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!!

ON MUSIC.
AIR-Banks of Banna.

WHEN through life unbless'd we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes, we used to love

In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept;

1. Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.-St PAUL, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17

Kindling former smiles again,
In faded eyes that long have wept!

Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,

Is the grateful breath of song,

That once was heard in happier hours. Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, Though the flowers have sunk in death; So, when pleasure's dream is gone, Its memory lives in Music's breath!

Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell!

Why should feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,

Love's are even more false than they;

Oh! 't is only Music's strain

Can sweetly sooth, and not betray!

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.'
AIR-The Sixpence.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how beloved was the friend that 's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
Through a life by his loss all shaded;
'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded!

Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light,"
While it shines through our hearts, will improve them;
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them!
And, as buried saints have given perfume

To shrines where they 've been lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.
AIR-Gage Fane.

T is believed that this harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, through the bright billow roved,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep,
Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form!
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the

Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been known

To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

No. IV.

THIS Number of The Melodies ought to have appeared much earlier; and the writer of the words is ashamed to confess, that the delay of its publication must be imputed chiefly, if not entirely, to him. He finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose of removing all blame from the publisher, but in consequence of a rumour, which has been circulated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to prevent the continuance of the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's enactments against Minstrels, and it is very flattering to find that so much importance is attached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop Lowth, it is true, was of this opi. nion, that one song, like the Hymn to Harmodius, would have done more towards rousing the spirit of the Romaus than all the philippics of Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times; ballads have long lost their revolutionary powers, and we question if even a << Lillibullero» would produce any very serious consequences at present. It is needless, therefore, to add, that there is no truth in the report; and we trust that whatever belief it obtained was founded more upon the character of the Government than of the Work.

The Airs of the last Number, though full of originality and beauty, were perhaps, in general, too curiously selected to become all at once as popular as, we think, they deserve to be. The Public are remarkably reserved towards new acquaintances in music, which, perhaps, is one of the reasons why many modern composers introduce none but old friends to their notice. Indeed, it is natural that persons who love music only by association, should be slow in feeling the charms of a new and strange melody; while those who have a quick sensibility for this enchauting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy novelty, because in every variety of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas, and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart has rapidly translated it into sentiment. After all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popular of our national Airs are also the most beautiful; and it has been our wish, in the present Number, to select from those Melodies only which have long been listened to and admired. The least known in the collection is the Air of « Love's young Dream;» but it is one of those easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly.

Bury Street, St James's,

Nov. 1811.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

AIR-The Old Woman.

T. M.

OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright

My heart's chain wove!

When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love!

New hope may bloom,
And days may come
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!
Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

He'll never meet

A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear The one loved name!

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first-love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste!
'T was odour fled

As soon as shed;

T was morning's winged dream; 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream!

Oh! 't was light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.

AIR-St Patrick's Day. THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile through our tears, like a sun-beam in

showers;

There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and bless'd than ours!

But, just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,

And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers, There comes a new link

Our spirit to sink

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 't were the last little spark in our souls,

We must light it up now on our Prince's Day.

Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you ar

true;

And the tribute most high to a head that is royal Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

While cowards who blight

Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The Standard of Green

In front would be seen

This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's Birth-Day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat ol the county of Kilkenny,

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.'
AIR-The Brown Irish Girl.

By that lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er,2
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
« Here at least,» he calmly said,

« Woman ne'er shall find my bed.»
Ah! the good saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

'T was from Kathleen's eyes he flew-
Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him her's, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.

On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ;
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth, nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.

Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave;
Soon the saint (yet, ah! too late)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, « Heaven rest her soul!»
Round the lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

AIR-Open the Door.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.
AIR-Crooghan a Venee.

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin'
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!—

The words of this song were suggeste 1 by the very ancient Ina! story, called Deirdri, or the lamentable fate of the sons of Una.5, which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr O'Flas

upon which it appears that the Darthulas of Macpherson is faundre The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the ty sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, sku terminated in the destruction of Eman. This story (says Mr O'Fisnagan) has been from time iminemorial held in high repute as est the three tragic stories of the Irish. The death of c These are, children of Touran; The death of the children of Lear (lettr Garding Tuatha de Dinans); and this, The death of the childva Esach, which is a Milesian story. In No. II. of these Meladies. is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir: Sale 71, Moyle' etc.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to setiqu which Mr O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Irear it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality if the art researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal em ragement which they merit.