But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?

No! Freedom, whose smiles we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders the Danes,

That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine, Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions,* who stood In the day of distress by our side;

While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,

They stirr'd not, but conquer'd, and died! 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.

* This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalagais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest. "Let stakes," they said," be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hundred wounded men,” adds O'Halloran, "pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops :-hever was such another sight exhibited."

History of Ireland, Book XII. Chap. 1.

ERIN.

AIR" Aileen Aroon."

ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies :
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Sadd'ning through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns, with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise.

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.

THE HARP.

AIR-" Gramachree.”

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.

No more the 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 show that still she lives.

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

AIR-" The Brown Maid."

OH! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'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.

But the night-dew that falls, tho' 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.

AIR" The Fox's Sleep."

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

O 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

e;

For heav'n can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

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.

FLY NOT YET.

AIR" Planxty Kelly."

FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour,

When pleasure, like the midnight flow'r,

* These words allude to a story in an old Irish manuscript, which is too long and too melancholy to be inserted here.

That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids that love the moon :

'Twas but to bless these hours of shade,
That beauty and the moon were made:
'Tis then, their soft attractions glowing,
Set the tides and goblets flowing:
Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-

Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to night, that, oh! 'tis pain,
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd

In times of old through Ammon's shade,*
Though icy cold by day it ran,

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near:

And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle, till the night returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,-Oh! stay,-

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake,
As those that sparkle here?

* Solis Fons, near the temple of Ammex.