As if no cloud could ever rise, To dim a heaven so purely brightI sigh to think how soon that brow In grief may lose its every ray, And that light heart, so joyous now, Almost forget it once was gay. For Time will come with all his blights, The ruin'd hope-the friend unkind— The love that leaves, where'er it lights, A chill'd or burning heart behind! While youth, that now like snow appears, Ere sullied by the darkening rain, When once 't is touch'd by sorrow's tears, Will never shine so bright again! IF THOU 'LT BE MINE. Or in Hope's sweet music is most sweet, Shall be ours, if thou wilt be mine, love! Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove, In our eyes-if thou wilt be mine, love! And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high, All this and more the Spirit of Love Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells; That heaven, which forms his home above, He can make on earth, wherever he dwells, And he will-if thou wilt be mine, love! TO LADIES' EYES. To ladies' eyes a round, boy, We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Though bright eyes so abound, boy, "T is hard to chuse, 't is hard to chuse. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers, The countless eyes that brighten This earth of ours, this earth of ours. But fill the cup-where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love there, boy, So drink them all! so drink them all! Some looks there are so holy, They seem but given, they seem but given, As splendid beacons solely, To light to heaven, to light to heaven. THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE. AIR-Noch bonin shin doe. THEY may rail at this life-from the hour I began it, I've found it a life full of kindness and bliss; And, until they can show me some happier planet, More social and bright, I'll content me with this. As long as the world has such eloquent eyes, As before me this moment enraptured I see, They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies, But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me. In Mercury's star, where each minute can bring them New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, No VIII. NE'ER ASK THE HOUR. AIR-My Husband's a Journey to Portugal gone. Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. If counting them over could add to their blisses, Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours, But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun, As long as its light was glowing, So fill the cup-what is it to us SAIL ON, SAIL ON. Though death beneath our smile may be, Sail on, sail on-through endless space-- To him who leaves such hearts on shore. Where never yet false-hearted men Profaned a world that else were sweetThen rest thee bark, but not till then. Tous les babitans de Mercure sont vifs.- Pluralité des Mondes. * La Terre pourra être pour Vénus l'étoile du berger et la mère des amours, comme Vénus l'est pour nous.-Ib. THE PARALLEL. AIR-I would rather than Ireland. YES, sad one of Sion,'—if closely resembling, These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews. Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning, Ah, well may we call her, like thee, « the Forsaken,»2 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 mor row That shines out at last on the longest dark night, When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and sor row Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight. When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City 3 Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips, And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity, The howl in her halls and the cry from her ships. When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over DRINK OF THIS CUP. DRINK of this cup-you 'll find there's a spell in Her was a fiction, but this is reality. Would you forget the dark world we are in,. To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. Send round the cup-for oh! there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality. Never was philter form'd with such power To charm and bewilder, as this we are quaffing! Its magic began, when, in Autumn's rich hour, As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing. There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, 1. Her sun is gone down while it was yet day. Jer. xv. 9. 2 Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken.-Isaiah, Ixii, 4. This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd, And though, perhaps but breathe it to no one- and hidden. So drink of the cup-for oh! there's a spell in THE FORTUNE-TELLER. AIR-Open the Door softly. Down in the valley come meet me to-night, And I'll tell you your fortune truly, As ever 't was told, by the new moon's light, Το young maidens shining as newly. But, for the world, let no one be nigh, If at that hour the heavens be not dim, My science shall call up before you A male apparition—the image of him Whose destiny 't is to adore you. Then to the phantom be thou but kind, And round you so fondly he 'll hover, You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find "Twixt him and a true living lover. Down at your feet, in the pale moon-light, He'll kneel, with a warmth of emotionAn ardour, of which such an innocent sprite You'd scarcely believe had a notion. What other thoughts and events may arise, As in Destiny's book I've not seen them, Must only be left to the stars and your eyes To settle, ere morning, between them. OH, YE DEAD. AIR-Plough Tune. On, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give 3. How hath the oppressor ceased: the Golden City ceased. From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like Isaiah, xiv, 4. 4. Thy pomp is brought down to the grave-and the worms cover thee. Isaiah, xiv, 11. 5. Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms. -Isaiah, xlvii, 5. men who live, Why leave you thus your graves, In far off fields and waves, Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot where all Those eyes that wept your fall, Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May-evening's light, And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, dead! It is true-it is true-we are shadows cold and wan; So sweet is still the breath Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er, That, ere condemn'd we go To freeze 'mid Hecla's' snow, We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more! O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. 2 AIR-The Little and Great Mountain. Of all the fair months, that round the sun Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me! Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves His lingering smile on golden eves, Fair lake, fair lake, thou 'rt dear to me; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee. Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore White steed, white steed, most joy to thee, Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring, Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me. While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launch'd, thy long mane3 curls, Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Fair steed, around my love and thee. Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. 17 asked why they do not return to their bomes, they say they are obliged to go to mount Hecla, and disappear immediately. * The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his white borse, may be found in Mr Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate springflowers in his path. Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the lake. The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, O'Donohue's white horses.. Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee. ECHO. AIR-The Wren. How sweet the answer Echo makes When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Than e'er, beneath the moon-light's star, Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat. 'T is when the sigh in youth sincere, The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear, OH! BANQUET NOT. OH! banquet not in those shining bowers More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tearsAnd many a cup in silence pourOur guests, the shades of former yearsOur toasts, to lips that bloom no more. There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Its branches o'er the dreary spot, THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE. AIR-The Market-Stake. THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown'd, Whatever in fame's high path could waken My spirit once, is now forsaken For thee, thee, only thee. Like shores, by which some headlong bark To the ocean hurries-resting never- I have not a joy but of thy bringing, Like spells that nought on earth can break, SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT? AIR-Macfarlane's Lamentation. SHALL the Harp then be silent when he, who first gave To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes? Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave, Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies?1 No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips, Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows be cross'd, Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse, And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost!? What a union of all the affections and powers, By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined, Oh, who that loves Erin-or who that can see, And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time! That one lucid interval snatch'd from the gloom And the madness of ages, when, fill'd with his soul, A nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, And, for one sacred instant, touch'd liberty's goal! Who, that ever hath heard him-hath drank at the source Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force, And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown. An eloquence, rich-wheresoever its wave Wander'd free and triumphant-with thoughts that shone through As clear as the brook's « stone of lustre,» and gave, Who, that ever approach'd him, when, free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 'Mong the trees, which a nation had given, and which bow'd, As if each brought a new civic crown for his head. The celebrated Irish orator and patriot, GRATTAN.-Ed tor. It is only these two first verses, that are either fitted or intended to be sung. That home, where-like him, who, as fable hath told,' Put the rays from his brow, that his child might come near Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old Became all that the simplest and youngest hold dear. Is there one who has thus, through his orbit of life, But at distance observed him-through glory, through blame, In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife, Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same? Such a union of all that enriches life's hour, Of the sweetness we love and the greatness we praise, As that type of simplicity blended with power, A child with a thunderbolt, only portrays.— Oh no-not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns, Deep, deep, o'er the grave where such glory is shrined— O'er a monument Fame will preserve 'mong the urns Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind! OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. On, the sight entrancing, With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing! But never to retreating! With helm and blade, Yet 't is not helm or feather- Could bring such hands And proud he braves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 'Tis heart alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever! Oh, that sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files, array'd With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing! Apollo, in his interview with Phaeton, as described by Ovid :Opposuit radios propiusque accedere jussit. » |