^/ '^m^.H.^ <^. '' # ^ v^- / » .0 <> '^.kH^^ .'^ 'y 'M 7' ^'^^^ '. -^v- v-?^' ^ W-' «v""^ '-^, <^ \ the star thou lovest. Oh ' then remember me. / 1 iunk when home returning, 1 >i ight we've seen it burning, f^ Oh ' thus remember me. 'It as summer closes, hen thine eye reposes 1 its ling'ring roses, ^ ( hi(_e so lov'd by thee, hiuk of her who wove thei il( 1 A\ho made thee love them,^| Oh ' then remember me 3.vk'^.^'^ ^-j^Hk. ^^, ^tVAtVAvtt thee ? yes, wliile there's life in this heart, It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art ; More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers, Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours. AVert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious and free, First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea, I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow. But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than now ? No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs, But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons — Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest. Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast. Bl(Mid like the rainbow that hangs m thy skies ! Shining through sorrow's stream, Saddening through pleasure's beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, ""-^> \--y^ Weep while they rise. t^^ ^' ^Erm, thy silent tear never shall ( ^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 ' ©ft I 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, though in silence it weeps. Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls. itihO' tlie last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see, Yet -wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ; In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam. To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore. Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more, I will lly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind. And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes, And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes ; Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair. ili;,ryTho' lost to Mononia and cold in the giavf %^ He returns to Kmkora no more * y/ ' That star of the field, which so often hath /y) Its beam on the battle, is set, i /Kx^But enough of its glory remains on each h ^^^^ To light us to victory yet j^ "^ 36 a Forget not our wounded companion'^, wlio stood' In the day of distress by our side , (/I) ( ■ >^ Whilethemossof the valley grew red with then blood, u] I I /^\ ( They fctirr'd not, but conquer'd and died /( ' '*- \ That sun which 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. £\\\ not yet, 'tis just the hour, When pleasure, lil^e the midnight flowc: That scorns the eye of vulgar light. Begins to bloom for sons of night. And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon w(,'re made ; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing. Oh! stay,— Oh! stay,— vv Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain To break its links so soon. Tliough icy cold liy day it ran, Yet still, like souls of mirth, began To burn wlien night was near. And thus, should woman's heart and looks At noon be cold as wintei- 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 awal As those that sparkle here? No: — life is a waste of wearisome hours, Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns; And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers, Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns. But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile — May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here. Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile, And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear. The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows f If it were not with friendshij) and love intertwin'd ; And I care not how soon I may sink to repose, When tliese blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest, Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd; And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest. Is happy indeed if 'twas never decoiv'd. But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine, — That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth. And the moonlight of friendship console our decline. ^^ J:%^^^^ki^ IX^^^X '^^^^^^"^ ^^t ^hc mcetint) ot the uuitcvo. (iiih(t( is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;' Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'Twas 7iot her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite still. 'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. When we see them reflected from looks that we love. "^^ M -/ %^ a beam ^ix the tucc i)t the \u\tK$ way ototv. ^,Si a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below, '^So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile, . Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while. One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade ahke o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring : For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting— Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray ; The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain, It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again. §k\x mA uxt xcm the ^tm ^he xvoxt^ , 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 effiice their decree; For Heaven 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. Oil ! blest are the lovers and friends who shall The days of thy glory to see; But the next dearest blessing that heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee. (I ^^ 2S5 Haply when from those eyes Far, far away I roam, Should calmer thoughts arise . Tow'rds you and home ; Fancy may trace some line, AVorthy those eyes to meet, Thoughts that not burn, but shine, Pure, calm, and sweet. And as, o'er ocean far, Seamen their records keep. Led by some hidden star Through the cold deep; So may the words I write Tell thro' what storms I stray — You still the unseen light, Guiding my way. j;) ■• -..-^r^l'^i ^v ^^M. ^t majj roam thvoutjlt thi^ ^t^xXk '^t may roam thro' tliis world, like a child at a feast, ^H Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest ; fg 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 feci, and eyes that smile, Are the dearest gifts 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, Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, ^Oh ' 1 emeurber the smile that adorns her at home. ff'-fe;*^ By a dragon of prudery placed within call ; .^C^^ Cut vo oft this unamiable dragon has slept, That the garden 's but carelessly watch'd after all. ^Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fence, Which round the flowers of Erin dwells ; Which warns the touch, while winning tlie sense, , Kor charms us least when it most repels. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam, When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round, n^ ^ Oh ! remember the smile that adorns her at home ^A^^ In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail, "- On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, But just pilots her off, and then bid^ her good-byel /f? vIs the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain, Whose spirit outlives them, unfadmg and warmT Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' tlio tears ^\ \ Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears. ^'' ^^^ The nations have fallen, and thou still art young, Thy sun is but rising, when others are set ; | And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung ^^1^ ^he full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. V. . .:>.v^2^il^^'^ m— ^^k^.—^^^. -T--^^ ^ (j}lV I blame not the bard, it he tly to the bower=?,'' y Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame , He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre, Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;" And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, \.^^3:£l _ Might liave pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart. .-^ -^^But alas for his country ' — her pride is gone ])v, ,^^, And that spirit is broken, which never would bend; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, ''^^ e*- -^°^" '^'^^ treason to love her, and death to defend. ^Vx^'^ Unpriz'd are her sons, till they 've learned to betray ; i^M Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires ; And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way, Llust be caught from the pile, where their country expires. Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream. He should try to forget, what he never can heal : | Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam Thro' the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd ; ^X^ While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown. Like the wreath of ITarmodius, should cover his sword." But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away, '"5' Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs; Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep, _^ Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, ^ '' Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep ! '^. ittktagia \^ gvittfe to iiPi,^\ho 1 Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh! woman's heart was made For minstrel lumds alone : By other fingers play'd," It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never huy. rv^,>'^%^- ^r-U^ '^^ -^HA' ^^ ^'^'^ Beaut) s door of glasb, When Wealth and Wit once stood Am 5?=^ With golden key Wealth thought To pass— but 'twould not do : While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through. So here's to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. The love that seeks a home Where wealth or grandeur shines. Is like the gloomy gnome, That dwells in dark gold mines. But oh! the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above, Tho' woman keeps it here. Then drink to her, who long Hath wak'd the poet's sigh, The girl, who gave to song What gold could never buy. l^vCX"-^* ^W\\t 0n^itt0 on tin? §\mx'$ litjlit '^tlhilC gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turn'd, To look at orbs, that, more bright, In lone and distant glory burn'd. But too far Each proud star, For me to feel its warming flame ; Much more dear That mild sphere, Which near our planet smiling came;" Thus, Mary, be but thou my own ; While brighter eyes unlieeded play, I'll love those moonlight looks alone. That bless my home and guide my way '^ "W tt^tt 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 iden herself will steal after it soon. Vs she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses, Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two, )' \. butterfly," fresh from the night-flower's kisses. Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enrag'd 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." ^^ OJ ;^/^., Willie 'she stole thro the garden Y,ht_ie hearts --. t. ease was growing, 1 ^'^V Shecull'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 caielessly leaning. Her zone flew in two, and the hearts-ease was lost Ah ' this means," said the giil (and she sigh'd at its meaning), Vv A '1 ^ That love is scarce worth the repose it will cu^t ' ' j ^ / V ''^\$ bebev'd that this Harp ^v hich I ^\ ake ^ oi T f < now for thee, VV^M \ ^ AVas a Siren of old, who sung unJei the sea , j^ "i I h \nd who often, at eve, thro' the biightwateisro\ 1 ^ i^ 1^ IFpi/j i i Tomeet ontheg^eenshole,a}outhwhomshelo^ 1 yF^ / iT » ''I'l Butshe loA 'dhimin ^am, for he lefther to wefji ^ -<, /(fl J 1^ Irn^ /"^ And m tears all the night her gold tresses to steep // A I v-J |i Till heav nlook'd with pity on true lo\e so warm t And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea maiden's f Jl) Still her bosom rose fair— still her cheeks smil'd th^ same — While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame ; And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell, Was cbang'd to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known To mmgle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To speak love when I 'm near thee, and grief when away. .^ ^tt)^ on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is round you cast, And you are men no more. In vain the hero's heart hatli bled ; The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vai Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled, It never lights again. Weep on — perhaps in after days, They '11 learn to love your name ; When many a deed may wake in praise That long hath slept in blame. And when they tread the ruin'd isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They '11 wondering ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave? ti "Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate ' ' Your web of discord wove ; "And while your tyrants join'd in hate, "You never join'd in love. "But hearts fell off, that ought to twine, "And man profan'd what God had given "Till some were heard to curse the shrine, "Where others knelt to heaven!" ^^ fel ,.^rjf^ ^r=^^ 1i^m\ f^X Harp of my Country ! in darkness I found tliee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long/" When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and songi. The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill ; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my Country ! farewell to thy numbers. This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine ! j~, Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers. Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine; , If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, ^ Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, ^ And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own ;1 the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of hfe, 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: No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream. Tho' the bard to purer fame may When wild youth's past; Tho' 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 heai- The one lov'd name. Mt f tinrt'^ Jajj dark are our sorrows, to-day we '11 forget them, And smile througli our tears, like a sunbeam in showers : There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them, More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours. But just when the chain Has ceas'd to pain. And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers, There comes a new link Our spirits 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 'twere the last little spark in our souls, We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day. i i. Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal ! Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are 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, — Oh, my life on your faith ! were you summon'd this minute. You'd cast every bitter remembrance away. And show what the arm of old Erin has in it, When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day. He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded In hearts, which have suffer'd too much to forget ; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded. And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray; Each fragment will cast A light to the last, — Erin, my country tho' broken thou art, lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay ; A spirit, which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day. And thu There' ^fSiUtll liath a beaming eye, ut no one knows for whom it beameth Right and left its arrows fly But what they aim at no one Jreameth' "'Rweeter 'tis to gaze upon '^ A[y Nora's hd that seldom rises, ^V J w its looks, but every one, ^ '^Like unexpected light, surprises' Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, bashful Nora Creina, Beauty lies -^ ^ many eyes, vours, mv Nora Creina ^ ^ Lesbia wears a robe of gold, But all so close the nymph hath lac VI it, 7^~~^^ Not a charm of beauty's mould \f ^ - Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it. f?^ Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, M That floats as wild as mountain breezes, Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as Heaven pleases. Yes, my Nora Creina, dear, My simple, graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness — The dress you wear, my Nora Creina. Lesbia hath a wit refin'd. But, when its points are gleaming Who can tell if they're design'd To dazzle merely, or to wound us? Pillowed on my Nora's heart, In safer slumber Love reposes — Bed of peace! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. ^^^ \^ r m §S that p»k», K\\m gtoomij show a|jj i-liat Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er," 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. 'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, — Eyes of most unholy blue! She had lov'd him well and long, Wish'd him hers, 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 cliffs bosom cast, Tranquil now he sleeps at last; Dreams of heav'n, 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. Glendalougli, thy gloomy wave Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave ' Soon the saint (yet ah ' too late,) Felt her love, and mouin'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 tulc Ei\> ^ky?- A ft i^ not tlt. ^ m^K §i i\u mill \m\x of §\^\\t ^t the mid hour of niglit, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye ; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air. To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there, And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky. Then I sing the wild song 't was once such pleasure to hear ! When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the ear ; And, as Eclio far off through the vale my sad orison rolls, I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls," Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. \)\mmt$ and xcm^. md^ life is all cheqner'd with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep, — Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows, our eyes, as they sparkle or weep. So closely our whims on our miseries tread, That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried ; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed, The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup — if existence would cloy. With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise. Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy, And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount. Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play ^'-M ■J Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount, And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.* Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine. Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted, And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet ; — while Idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me r^, ■'^ Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sliamrock! Chosen leaf ^ Of Bard and Chief, ^n Old Erin's native Shamrock ! So firmly fond May last the bond, They wove that morn together, And ne'er may fall One drop of gall On Wit's celestial feather. May Love, as twine His flowers divine, Of thorny falsehood weed 'em ; May Valour ne'er His standard rear Against the cause of Freedom Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock f Chosen leaf Of Bard and Chief, Old Erm's nati\( shuniOLkl ^ ^\\t valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind ; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, That saddened the joy of my mind. I look'd for the lamp which, she told me. Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd ; But, though darkness began to infold me. No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! I flew to her chamber — 'twas lonely. As if the lov'd tenant lay dead ; — Ah, would it were death, and death only ! But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften My very worst pains into bliss ; While the hand, that had wak'd it so often, Now tlirobb'd to a proud rival's kiss. There was a time, falsest of women, When Breffni's good sword would have souglit That man, thro' a million of foemen, Who dar'd but to wrong thee in thought I While now — oh degenerate daughter Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame ! And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter, Our country shall bleed for thy shame. Already, the curse is upon her. And strangers her valleys profane; They come to divide, to dishonour, And tyrants they long will remain. But onward ! — the green banner rearing, Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is Virtue and Erin, iwOn theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. ""^'OU remember Ellen, oui hamlet's pnde,^' llow meekl}' she blessed her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her And love was the light of their lowly cot Together they toil'd through winds and rain; Till William, at length, in sadness said, "We must 3eek our fortune on otlier plains; Then, sighing, she left her ImwK ^1,,.] , Tlioy loam'd a long and a weary way, Xoi miKh was the maiden's Heart at ea&e, When now, at close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. "To-night," said the youth, " we'll shelter there, "The wind blows cold, the hour is late So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air. And the Porter bow'd, as they pass'd the gate. "Now, welcome. Lady," exclaim'd the youth, — "This castle is thine, and these dark woods all !" She believ'd him crazed, but his words were truth. For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! And deaily the Loid ot Rosna loves What William the stianger woo'd and wed , Vnd the light of bliss, in these lordly grove , Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed ^t^ltCtt thro' life unblest 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; ndling 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 happi^ 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. .. i^K^^d^^^' ''^' -.n^^; MlU Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find hiia ; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. — "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Tho' all the world betrays thee, " 0)ie sword, at least, thy rights shall guard " One faithful harp shall praise thee!" T% ^,^^H^ ilip Minstrel fell ' — but the foeman s chain ^^\ -^V^ ^'ould not bimg hi& pioud &oul under ^ = ^ w^ ^-A *?i^ ^mt\ ta tlunfe, ©ijj sweet to think, that, where'er wo rove, We are sure to find something bHssful and dear, And that, when we 're far from the Ups we lovo, We've but to make love to the lips we are near." Tlie 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. Then oh ! what pleasure, where'er we rove. To be sure to find something, still, that is dear. And to know, when far from the lips we love, We've but to make love to the lips that are near. 'Twcre a sliamc, when flowers around us rise, To niake light of the rest, if the rose is n't there; And the world 's so rich in rosjjlendent eyes, -< 'T were a pity to limit one's love to a pair. n7 Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, They are both of them bright, but they 're changeable too, And, wdierever 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 sure to find something, still, that is dear, And to know, when far from the lips we love, We' ve but to make love to the lips we are near. jr j\ \i I ^^^Oo<-.>-^^^^-^ ss^^^:^-:^^,^^^^ ^&, r-^ \ V: ^ 4>f nc ^iutircUi — but ttltcucvcv tjou u'clcomc the hour. ^JU'CU'CU I — but whenever you welcome the hour, That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Tlien tliink of the friend who once welcom'd it too. And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brighten'd liis pathway of pain. But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you. And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the higliest top sparkle each heart and each cup. Where 'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night ; RluiU join m }our i(.\(ls, your sports, and your wiles, And letum to lae, beaming all o'er with your smiles — Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer Some kind voice had murmur'd, "I wish he was here!' Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of tlie past, which she cannot destroy ; Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd ! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd — You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. g'll mouvu the Ii(»|rc^. ^ 'd nt0UVtt the hopes that leave me, If thy smile had left me too ; I 'd -weep when friends deceive me, If thou wert, like them, untrue. But while I 'vc thee before me. With heart so warm and eyes so l^right No clouds can linger o'er me. That smile turns them all to liirht. 'Tis not in fate to harm me, While fate leaves thy love to me; 'Tis not in joy to charm me, Unless joy be shared with thee. One minute's dream about thee Were worth a long, an endless year ^"^v C)f waking bliss without thee, '""*'" 7 My own love, my only dear! ■„r_ ,jy^^^(j^^- ^^V(-^^H^ )' 'iunshine, &toim and sno\\'5, t^i^n) "^^-^ ( ^, ^f^- ^SSS^^:^] v me drojDs weie in that bowl, Remains of last nights pleasuie, With which the Bpaiks of Soul Mix'd their burning tieasuie Hence the goblet's showei Hath such spells to win us, Hence its mighty pow ei O'er that flame within us Fill the bumpei fan ' Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wiinkle m^ am T ii. ' ^ III Ot mu--]( tall on the slocper's ear, y^\. ■ mber'5, ^/l^^y ^0, not inoie welcome the fairy nunibe When lialt awaking from fearful slumber'^, '^^''irl' 1' He thinks the full quire of heaven is near, — JL | 1 Than came that voice, when, all forsaken, This lieart long had sleeping lain, '^ // ^ ^ i Y _ ^ Nor tliouglit its cold pulse would ever waken 1\ -^- "'''>' 1 "Ivt "^ ^- '^^ ^^^^ benign, blessed sounds again -^ (^P. ..^^uf i^a^ S\vtet\OKeofcomfoit' t was like the steal iiij, Ot suinmei \Mncl thio ^ome\Mtathed'-licll Each secict wmdino eacli inino'-t teeliii mvj \'y Ot all my '>oul eclioed to its ^pell |\J r w is \\ luspei d balm — t u as sunshine spoken Isl I d li\e 3 ears of grief and pain ""V To hx\e my long sleep of soriow bioken By such benign, blessed sounds again c;--. '^^^Vl U'ltOU(^h hiiinblc the banquet to wliich I invite thee, ^^y^\ Thou 'It find there the best a poor bard can command Xo Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to- light thee, A -y And Love serve the feast with his own wilhng hand (!)^h' iVnd though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelHn,<. VJ~nfN Of him thou regardest her favouring ray, g?^ rh( )U w ilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling, ^*'®' / Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way. 'T is that freedom of mmd, which no vulgar dciminion Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves ; Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion, Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves. 1 'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat. And, with this, though of all other treasures bereaved, Tlie breeze of his garden to him is more sweet Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received. Then, come, — if a board so untempting hath power To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine ; And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower, --^ Who, smiling,will blend her bright welcome with mine. ■pE; :fe r^^ J; j ^phcij hxm not mij §ml ®Un( know not my heart, wlio belieA'e there can be One stain of this earth in its feehngs for thee; Who think, wliile I see thee in beauty's young hour As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r, I could liarm wliat I love, — as the sun's wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it awav. No— beaming with light as those young features are. There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: It IS not that cheek — 'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear ; As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair, ^ Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there! \1 WMU Histoiy's Muse the inrraoual was /let pi: Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves, I'x'sidn Ik.t the Genius of Erin stood weeping, For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame. She saw History write, With a pencil of light Tliat illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's name. " Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all sparkling With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies — " Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, " I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. " For, tho' Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot, ? ' And unhallovv'd they sleep in the cross- ways of Fame ;— " But oh ! there is not " One dishonouring blot ■ On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name. ' Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, " The grandest, the purest, ev'n thoiL hast yet known ; ■ Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining, " Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. " At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood* ' Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame, " And, bright o'er the flood " Of her tears and her blood, " Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name !" ^r^ :=: ^^^•^ o^ W'\^ gone, and for ever, tlie ]igl>t we saw breaking, Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead- "When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking, Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled. 'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning, The dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning. And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. 0j For high was thy liope, when tliose glories were darting Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world ; When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting, ($^: '^ \. At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd. dome, I'st lu tins Ih.m.iu, nn ,,\\ i, ^tn, k, n 1 i, Tho' tlielieul lia\eflpfl fiom thee, thy home is still heie, Heie still IS the smile, tlut no cloud can o'eicast. And a heart and a hand all tliy own to the last. 1 i4\ Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not tlie same ,„ _ U , . , , I, /> ^ Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?/", I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, ., V ,,T l)ut know tliat I love thee, whatever tliou art i \%. fm ^; But 'tis past — and, tho' blazon'd in story The name of our Victor may be, Accurst is the march of that glory Which treads o'er the hearts of the free Far dearer the grave or the prison. Illumed by one patriot name. Than the trophies of all, who have risen On Liberty's ruins to fame. vr gilij gentle ^ux\i ^tlX\\ gentle Harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumbering strain, In tears our last farewell was taken, And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o'er thee broken. But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken. Thou hanti'st upon the willows still. Wimmj^Z And yet, since last thy chord resounded, An hour of peace and triumph came, And many an ardent bosom bounded With hopes — that now are turn'd to shame. Yet even then, while Peace was singing Her halcyon song o'er land and sea, Tho' joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee. Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure, My drooping Harp, from chords like thine? Alas, the lark's gay morning measure , As ill would suit the swan's, decline! ^ Or how sliall I, who love, who bless thee. Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains. When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mix'd — half flow'rs, half chains? But come — if yet thy frame can borrow One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me, And show the world, in chains and sorrow, How sweet thy music still can be; )^ How gaily, ev'n mid gloom surrounding. Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thri r il Memnon's broken image sound Mi.l desolation tuneful still! J^;:^ ^'" 'V^rC^' ^^.^S^ ^ When, round the bowl, of vanisli'd years We talk, with joyous seeming, — With smiles that might as well be tears, So foint, so sad their beaming ; While mem'rv brings us back again Each early tie that twined us, Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us. n\ And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle, or vale enchanting, Where all looks flow'ry, wild, and sweet. And nought but love is wanting ; We think how great had been our bliss, If Heav'n had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us ! ^M As trav'llers oft look back at eve. When eastward darkly going. To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing,— So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, Wc turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind us. ^ i« the §Xmmci of fife. ^U tlie morning of lilo, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre hegin, When we live in a bright-beaming worhl of our own And the light that surrounds us is all from within Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time We can love, as in hours of less transport we may ;- Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is truest when these fade away. When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return ; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so higl First tastes of the ofJicr, the dark-flowing urn; Then, then is the time when afiection holds sway With a deptli and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they. But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow is tin /WhfU cold in the earth hes the fiiend thou hast loved, 3 ^ Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then , 0^(1^ | Oi, if from their slumber the veil be removed, 'ilM |l Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again 1' " ' \iid oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far | l''rom the pathways of light he was tempted to 10 am | 1 ,i it bliss to remember that thou wert the stai I That arose on his darkness, and guided him homt ^M rom thee and thy innocent beauty first came The revealings, that taught him true love to adore, To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame^ From the idols he blindly had knelt to before. O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild^ Thou earnest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea; And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled On his ev'ning horizon, the light was from thee. ^ And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise, And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray, -He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes, And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish'd away. As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim. At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair, So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him. He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there. ^ ,.=S2je^ l0 pdicsi' ^iJf!5i. ^0 Ladies' eyes around, boy, We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy, 'Tis bard to choose, 'tis hard to choose. For thick as stars that lighten Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs, 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 flxll, 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 giv'n, they seem but glv'n. As shining beacons, solely, To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n. ^h v] ..=^iS;;^i]^ak_ While some — oh ! ne'er beheve them — With tempting ray, with tempting ray, Would lead us (God forgive them !) The other way, the other way. But fill the cup — where'er, boy, Our choice may fall, our choice may fall, We're sure to find Love tliere, boy. So drink them all ! so drink them all ! In some, as in a mirror, Love seems pourtray'd. Love seems ponrtray'd. But shun the flattering error, 'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade. Himself has fix'd his dwelling Li eyes we know, in eyes we know. And lips — but this is telling — So here they go ! so here they go ! Fill up, fill up — 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 ! n. m ^A,> ^^fJt AiJllfldt^ ^rT>^'J~- t U. t^.iiiiii,i^,i,.i\i [.lty.aiMttH,i,; nil^. |,. S^I/JfiiftimfHttftf^jl ^\ ,ff ... J$ Tlien, wreath tlie bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest Wit can find us ; We'll take a flight Tow'rds heaven to-night, And leave dull earth behind us. 'Twas nectar fed Of old, 'tis said, Their Junos, Joves, ApoUos; And man may brew His nectar too, The rich receipt 's as follows : Tahe wine like this, Let looks of bliss Aiouud it well be blended, Then binig Wit's beam To \\aim the stream, And theie's your nectar, splendid! So wieath the bowl With flowers of soul, The bughtest Wit can find us; We'll take a flight Tow'rds heaven to-night, And lea\e dull earth behind us. ^ Jt^- -^ ^K?g <5hcjj m\% vail at this; ^ift ©UfJJ may rail at this life — from tlie hour I began it, I found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; And, until they can show me some happier planet. More social and bright, I '11 content me with this. As long as the world has such lips and such 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 moment can bring them New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high, > Tho' the nymphs may have li\clier poet'^ to snig them,^' They\e none, even there, moie cnamoui'd than I. And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to lo\e, (^ And that eye its divine inspiration shall be, ,They may talk as they will of their Edens above. But thib earth is the [ilanet for you, love, and m c {^r^ %,^^ Ill that star of tlie west, by whose shadowy splendoui , -_3 At twilight so often we 've roam'd through the dew ll^ S' There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tendi -^^ And look, in their twilight, as lovely as you I fi ii~„ m^ ^t*tt asife the gottt '""■-^ ^CVV ask the hour — wliat is it to us How Time deals out his treasures ? The golden moments lent us thus, Are not his coin, but Pleasure's. It counting them o'er could add to thei I 'd number each glorious second : But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd Then fill the cup — what is it to us How Time his circle measures? The fairy hours we call up thus. Obey no wand but Pleasure's. Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hour' I ]^^ ^ 7~^ Till Care, one summer's morning, ^^i^f^ ■!%.[ I ^^'^ "P' among his smiling flowers, Y^^*Y>'^') -^ ^^''^^' '^y "^^''^y '^^ warnin" :..^A T^ %.=.~^"-=. ^Sk'^. ^^<^ ff tliou'It be mine. i3/f thou It be mine, the treasures of an, Of eaith and sea, shall lie at thy feet, Wlutever in Fancy's eye looks fair Oi in Hope's sweet music souncL 1 lost sweet, Shall be ouis — if thou wilt be mine, Jo\e' ^ V llBiijfht floweis shall bloom wherevei -ue io\e, A \oice dume sliall talk in each stu ini Tilt stiis shall look like worlds of lo\c And this exith be all one beautil In oui L)eb — if thou wilt be liinie, I 1% \-->> And thoughts, whose source is hidden and Like stieamb, that come from lieaven-ward hills, FihxU keep oui hearts, like meads, that lie To be bathed by those eternal rills, E\ei ^uen if thou wilt be mine, love! All this and moie the Spirit of Love Can bieathe o'er them, who feel his spells; Thit hea\en, A\hich forms his home above. He c\n md^L on earth, wherever he dwells. As thou It own, — if thou wilt be mine, love! ^hcttc'n* g isfitJi'^ i^ But, for the world, let no one be nigh, Lest haply the stars should deceive ine ; Such secrets between you and me and the sky Should never go farther, believe me. If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim. My science shall call up before you A male apparition, — the image of him Whose destiny 't is to adore you. And if to that phantom you'll be kind. So fondly around you he '11 hover. You '11 hardly, my dear, any difference find 'Twixt him and a true living lover. Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight, He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion — An 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. ^-m/v/' .->''V. ^/r"'V ■ .M----^ :::^<:^'-ir-^^^ l^^ ^^%. yi Oh banquet not. (^h banquet not in those shining bowers, Where Youtli resorts, but come to me; For mine 's a garden of faded flowers, More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears, And many a cup in silence pour; Our guests, the shades of former years, Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more. There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed, We '11 brim the bowl to broken vows, To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, while some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot. We'll drink to those neglected graves, Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot ! i ^^^ ^0ttl &i;\eet the an&wei Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by kite or horn, she wakes. And far away, o'er lawns and lakes. Goes answerino; lidit. Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Tlian e'er beneath the moonlight's star, Of horn or lute, or soft guitar. The songs repeat. 'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere. And only then, — The sigh that's breath 'd for one to hear Is by that one, that only dear, 2'-^*^a Breathed back again ^htt, i\m, 0tttvj ihtt iliint dawning of morn, the dayliglit's sinking, The niglit's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee. When friends are met, and goblets crown 'd, And smiles are near, that once enchanted, Unreacli'd by all that sunshine round. My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted By thee, thee, only thee. -^^Hiatever in fame's high path, could wak^ <<~>^ Shame, oh shame unto thee, If ever thou see'st that day, When a cup or a hp shall woo thee. And turn untouch'd away Then, quick! we have but a second, Fill round, fill round, while you may For Time, the churl, hath beckon 'd. And we must away, away ! i \v\$h g wr^ h\^ titat Aim §nU ^ Wi'Slt I was by that dim Lake, Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be ; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again. The lifeless sky, tlie mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round ; The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head, Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead! These, ay, these shall wean My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb. As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light. So must the hopes, that keep this breast Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, this heart must grow, jUnmoved by either joy or woe, )Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone. ,^ /^^ /■ '■ r=^^^^^?f^1fl ^VCtti Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine! How fair thou art let others tell, — To feel how fair shall long be mine. Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell In memory's dream that sunny smile, Which o'er thee on that evening fell When first I saw thy fairy isle. 'T was light, indeed, too blest for one, Who had to turn to paths of care — ''>y Through crowded haunts again to run. And leave thee bright and silent there: ^ No more unto thy shores to come. But, on the world's rude ocean tost. Dream of thee sometimes, as a home Of sunshine he had seen and lost. ^ff ^_ ^rw Far better in thy weeping hours To part from thee, as I do now, When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers, Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, But thus in shadow, seeha'st a place Where erring man might hope to rest — Might hope to rest, and find in thee A gloom like Eden's, on the day He left its shade, when every tree. Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way. Weeping or smiling, lovely isle! And all the lovelier for thy tears — For tho' but rare thy sunny smile, 'T is heav'n's own glance when it appears. Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few. But, when indeed they come, divine — The brightest light the sun e'er threw Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! ^ d 9)»? ^^-^i ■ #4^-*^^ ^-Cifc w. When morning's beam ib glan( n J'i i/t|^^^ys»r IT j^lX^' O'er files array'd, -/ \ r ^l^i f'^^J^ly And plmnes, in the gay wind d uu mi V When hearts are all high beatiiij^, \ ^ | ^ ;? ■rf (n%. And the trumpet's voice lepeatmg \ \ li\\fl 3^JfQ)^^t^^That song, whose biea^ ^<^^ ^^^%May lead to death, W^ ' ' 4^^ But never to retreating. ^■^(j:-'' JHfhl ,= _^ Oh the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files array'cl With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancin Yet, 'tis not helm or feather — For ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'em Give man but heart and freedom. And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em The sword may pierce the beaver, 5^^ Stone walls in time may sever, 'T is mind alone. Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh that sight entrancing. When the morning's beam is glancin: O'er files array'd With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing;! 0M'f<^^^ C\l 'i wu one 0i iU^t §xm\x^ @ tt^JtJi one of tliose dreams, that by imislc are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm ihought- When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes. And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore. /j He listen'd — while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest. The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire. As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. It seem'd as if ev'ry sweet note, that died here. Was again brouglit to life in some airier sphere, Some heav'n in those hills, where the soul of the strain That had ceased upon earth was awaking again -/kzx^^'2^ Oil foit,i\(, it wliik li-,t( 111114 to nmM(, whost hiuitl Stcm'd to (11.1, ,,'-^.^' %^ ITtslioul.lful .pioiH]S,,n,t\Mtl,ni ^iS "-E\tii so shalt tlidu li%e 111 tin c.li.i nc witli a cliiini a^uiist dtilli, limi ]>io(_l iini, >ut 1 ini, J% »^ / V "Evtn so, tlio' tin mcmon siiould now dit aw i^ , "Tuill 1)( f uio:lit lip io,ii) 111 some happiei clay, ^ xM^ "And tlic luxits and tlie \(u<(s of Eiin piolono;, \ 'a^Lioiij-h the ins\\ti 1114 riitiiic, tin num ind tin son-^.i' iaitc-st ! \mt m iwMt ^^ ^aitCStl put on awhile These pinions of liglit I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle In fancy let me wing thee. Never did Ariel's plume, At golden sunset hover O'er scenes so full of bloom, As I shall waft thee over. Fields, where the Spring delay And fearlessly meets the ardour Of the warni Summer's gaze, With only her teai's to guard her. Rocks, through myrtle boughs In grace majestic frowning; Like some bold warrior's brows That Love hath just been crownin Islets, freslily fair, -\^^'v'7 ^i That never liath bird come nigli them. But fi'om his course thro' air He hath been won down by them; — " Types, sweet maid, of thee, Wliose look, whose blush inviting. Never did Love yet see From Heav'n, without alighting. Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,*^ And caves, where the gem is sleeping. Bright as the tears thy lid Lets fall in lonely weej^ing. Glens," where Ocean comes. To 'scape the wild wind's rancour, And Harbours, worthiest homes Where Freedom's fleet can anchor. Then, if, while scenes so grand, So beautiful, sliine before thee. Pride for thy own dear land Should haply be stealing o'er thee. Oil, let grief come first. O'er pride itself victorious — Thinking how man hath curst What Heaven had made so glorious! l^U- ^ttd doth not a meeting like this make amends, For all the long years I 've been wand'ring away — To see thus around me my youth's early friends, As smiling and kind as in that happy day? Though hapl)^ o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine, The snow-fall of time may be stealing — what then ? Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine. We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again. What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart. In gazing on those we've been lost to so long! The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were pai Still round them, like visions of yesterday, thronf jAs letters some hand liath invisibly traced. When held to the flame will steal out on the siglit'^ many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced, .''lie warmth of a moment like this brings to light. And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide. The wreck of full many a hope shining through ; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers. That once made a garden of all the gay shore. Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more." So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most, Is all we can have of the few we hold dear; And oft even joy is unheeded and lost. For want of some heart, that could echo it, near. Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone. To meet in some world of more permanent bliss. For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on, Is all we enjoy of each other in this.'"' But, come, the more rare such delights to the lieart, The more we should welcome and bless them the more ;'' They're ours, when we meet, — they are lost when we part, Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er. r"} -^\ ^ ) '^ lliu I ulIui^ the cup, hand in hand, ere we dunk, Let Sympathy pledge u&, thio' plea^uie, thio' p.un That, fast as a feehng but touches one hnk. Her mao-ic shall send it diiect thio' the chain b (^UHU tlie 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? No — faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips, Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost. 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, Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre was ours, While its mighty circumference circled mankind. Oii, who that loves Erin, or who that can see, Through the waste of her nnnals, that epoch subhme- Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time; <3 That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom And the madness of ages, when fill'd with liis soul, A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom, And lor one sacred instant, touchd 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 sjiirit 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, With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd, In a home full of love, he deliglited to tread e trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd, each bi-onght a new civic crown for his head — Py k^ 1^ J' ^\ iJy the Feal b wave benighted, '^ ^ ^-Wl) U WW^. i/VJ To thy aoor by Love lighted, f VifW^ I fii&t saw those eyes I ^^ % c Some voice whisper'd o'er me, '9 |||w«»«f^y^ ^™ . As the threshold I ciost, / Jf . ' ' ' M ' %f/ Theie was luin befoie me, li^uf ^'''^\m^ ' It I lo\ed, I was lost Jj^j l.ove came, and brought sorrow Too soon in his train ; Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 'T were welcome again. Though misery's full measure My portion should be, I would drain it with pleasure. If pour'd out by thee. You, who call it dishonour To bow to this flame. If you've eyes, look but on her. And blush while you blame. Hath the pearl less whiteness Because of its birth? Hath the violet less brightness For growing near earth? No — Man for his glory To ancestry flies; But Woman's bright story Is told in lier eyes. While the Monarch but traces Thro' mortals his line, Beauty, born of Graces, Banks next to Divine ! '"R^^ f. OT Vt a secret to tell thee, but hush ! not here, — Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear. Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps ; Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies, Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a •note her night-bird sighs. The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush There, amid the deep silence of that hour. When stars can be heard in ocean di]). Thyself shall, under some rosy bower. Sit mute, with thy finger on tliy lip: Like him, the boy,"" who born among The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, J^^l^^ Sits ever thus, — his only song ^' ( rvVf To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!" ^^ L^ alU yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, ^,Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, 1 f V { ^^ ^^^^ haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sj>iite. . As once, by moonlight, lie wander'd o'er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight — 'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite! Beside a fountain, one sunny day, J As bending over the stream he lay, There peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light, ^ And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite He turn'd, but, lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled — and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the fliglit Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. i( One night, still haunted by that bright look, The boy, bewilder'd, his pencil took. And, guided only l:)y memory's light. Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite \^ ,:z:^"0\\ thou, who lo\est the shKl()\\,"( lied A voice, low wliisperiiig by his side, Now turn and see," — here the youth's deligliti Re^l'd tlie rosy lips of the Mount Of all the Spirits of land and sea," /(P |j Then rapt he murmur'd, " there 's none like line " And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light "111 this lonelv bower, sweet IMountain Sprite! ^outn-s flelIgllt^ -^,^ "'^ '^'^ ^^ vmtixMt'A ^^»tt« %^ vanquish'd Erin wept beside The Boyne's ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide. Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. "Lie hid," she cried, "ye venom'd darts, "Where mortal eye may shun you; "Lie hid— the stain of manly hearts, "That bled for me, is on you." But vain her wish, her weeping vain,— As Time too well hath taught her— Each year the Fiend returns again. And dives into that water; And brings, triumphant, from beneath His shafts of desolation. And sends them, wing'd with worse than death Throuo-h all her madd'ning nation. Alas for her who sits and mourns Ev'n now, beside that river — Unwearied still the Fiend returns. And stored is still his quiver ,\£r^ /^ " When will this end, ye Powers of Good '^ She weeping asks for ever ; But only hears, from out that flood, The Demon answer, " Ne\ ^in(]|. sweet Harp, oh sing to me Some song of ancient days. Whose sounds, in this sad memory. Long buried dreams shall raise ; — Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame, Whose lightonce round us shone; Of noble pride, now turn'd to shame. And hopes for ever gone. — Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me; Alike our doom is cast, Both lost to all but memory. We live but in the past. How mournfully the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh, As if it sought some echo there Of voices long gone by ; — Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd The foremost then in fame ; Of Bards who, once immortal deem'd. Now sleep without a name. — In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air Among thy chords doth sigh ; In vain it seeks an echo there Of voices long gone by. Could'st thou but call those spirits round. Who once, in bower and hall. Sate listening to thy magic sound. Now mute and mouldering all ; — But, no ; they would but wake to weep Their children's slavery; Then leave them in their dreamless sleep, The dead, at least, are free ! — Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone, That knell of Freedom's day; Or, listening to its death-like moan, Let me, too, die away. (; }) flit sung of §m. ^\Xt sung of Love, while o'er lier lyre The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek. And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak. If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. i But soon the West no longer burn'd. Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew ; And, when to gaze again 1 turn'd. The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. As if her light and heav'n's were one, The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone. As from a parting spirit, carae.'° II Who ever loved, but had the thought That he and all he loved must part ? Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart — And cried, " Oh Love ! is this thy doom ? " Oh light of youth's resplendent day ! '• Must ye then lose your golden bloom, "And thus, like sunshine, die awav ? " (^tviHC the gay harp! see the moon is on high, And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean, Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye. Obey the mute call, and heave into motion. Then, sound notes — the gayest, the lightest, That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest! Again! Again! Oh ! could such heart-stirring music be heard In that City of Statues described by romancers, So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd. And statues themselves all start into dancers ! Why then delay, with suoh sounds in our ears. And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us, — While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres, And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us? Again, that strain! — to hear it thus sounding Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding — Again ! Again ! Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay. Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May, And mingle sweet song and sunshine together ! gxom tluji giout tilt f Irdgc b (^mn Jct01U this hour the pledge is given, From tliis liour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth or heaven, Weal or woe, thy fate be mine. When the proud and great stood by thee, None dared thy rights to spurn ; And if now they're false and fly thee. Shall I, too, basely turn? No ;— whate'er the fires that try thee. In the same this heart shall burn. Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest, Offers now no friendly shore, Light may come where all looks darkest, Hope hath life, when life seems' o'er. And, of those past ages di-eaming. When glory deck'd thy brow. Oft I fondly think, though seeming So fall'n and clouded now. Thou 'It again break forth, all beaminr, None so bright, so blest as thou! I^ff ^ du :v:^-^j7^1-:^g^ --^.^^si^VK^ .:^ t a ®IlC wme cup IS ciitling in Alinliin's hall,' And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining, -^ Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall, Wheie his sword hangs idly shining. AVhen, hark ! that shout From the vale without, — • ^ . ^ ^ ^\ C^" \i 111 ye quick, the Dane, the Daneis nigh!" ^'V^ ^ e ^wiM^ Kv'ry Chief starts up '^^\^ ^^^^F From his foaming cup. The minstrels have seized tlieir harps of gold, And they sing such thrilling numbers, — 'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old. Breaking forth from their place of slumbers' Spear to buckler rang, As the minstrel sang, And the Sun-burst" o'er them floated wide. While rememb'ring the yoke Which their fathers bi-oke, "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cued Like (_lou gjmif^.TO- (i ,^;^ Tis true in manliest e}es N| A passing tear will rise, When we think of the friends we leave lone; But what can wailing do? See, our goblet's weeping too! With its tears we'll chase away our own, bov, our own ; With its tears we '11 chase away our own. But daylight's stealing on; — The last that o'er us shone Saw our children around us play; The next — ah ! where shall we And those rosy urchins be? Q/ But — no matter — grasp thy sword and away, (T' boy, away; izi^' No matter — grasp thy sword and away ! Let those, who Ijrook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane, Ignobly by their fire-sides stay; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven, Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! lurra! hurra! u ffl!^ #'g0n0l«tc'^ pi,!Stvc^^ C9t all the fair months, that round the sun In light-linkVl dance their circles run, Sweet May, shine thou for me; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, Sweet May, returns to me. Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Its lingering smile on golden eves, Fair Lake, thou 'rt dearest to me ; For when the last April sun grows dim. Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him " Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee. Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, White Steed, most joy to thee; Who still, with the first young glance of spring. From under that glorious lake dost bring My love, my chief, to me. n 'While, white as the sail some bark untiui^, "^ When newly launch'd, thy long mane" cuih, ^^ Fair Steed, as white and free ; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, ^ Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Around my love and thee. 'Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening's light,-^^ When thou and thy steed are lost to sight ^p^ ^ \ d Dear love, I'll die for thee. ( -fyk,^ rt ca ) Oh, what would liave been young Beauty's doom, Without a bard to fix her bloom? They (ell us, in \\\o moon's briglit I'ound, ThiiiL's lost in this dark world arc I'ound; !-i() charms, on earth long pass'd and gone, In tJK! ])oct's lay live on. — \V(iul(l ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? You've only to give them all lo Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand, (Jan lend (hem lilr, this life beyond. And lix them high, in I'ciesy's sky, — Young stai's that never die! Then, welcome (he bard where'er ho comes 1 /u M '*''"' ^'""'■'^''' '"^ '"^'''' countless airy homes, |/ LiV \ To which his wing excursive roves, Yet s(ill, from time to time, he loves To light UjuMi cardi and lind such cheer As bright.Mis <,ur ban.iuet here. No maJier how far, Imw lleet he (lies. You've only (o light u[> kind young eyes, Huch siirnal- as iiere are given. J/Jl ■» '^ "4 ^^'"^^ down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, ^'^Ai^^f^^JK ^-l-'l"' minute such call to love or mirth ^_-^H f ' < 'JA ['reclaims he's wanting on earth! //l u ^ P-^^f^ 1.T ^ ^inj^— .^iuji— pn,!Sif m\$ j^ivcS^.^ ^^'\D(^itt(J— sing— Music was o-ivoii, To briirliten the gay, ami kin.ll.' (lio ioviui;: // BoulsluMv, liko planols i„ Jlcwvn, l')V liariiioiiy's laws alono are kopi inovinp;. Hoauty may boast, of lu>r eyes and lua- olicoks, 15ut Tjovo from tlio lips his (rno arcluTy wing; Ana she, who l.nt loalhers (lio clar( wlion sho speaks, f\ At once sends it home to the lieart wlien she sinn-s. I 'f^i Then sing — sing — Music was given, > // To brighten the gay, un.l kindle Ihr K.ving; ]/ / Souls here, like planets in lleav.-n, " M I'.y harmony's laws alone are kej-t moving. \ I'Im tl ' ^^''"■" l^^^-'^N '-^^^'l^'^l 'VV Iii« moth,'!-, Jjay sleeping as calm as slumber could m.ake hii "Hush, hush," said \'enus, "noolh.T "Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake hi 1)n.annng,>rmusi,. h,' slund.erM the whlK- Till I'aint IVom Ins lip a, soft nu^lody bi'oke, ^ij^ And Venus, enchanted, look'd (jn with a, smile, J> /^ljC\ Whde Love to liis own sweet, singing awoke /^r\ ^"^ ^MJ^ Then sing-sing-Arnsie was g,ven, ^ f ^ '' To brighten tlu. gay, and kindle the lovingkX fCSoulshere, hke planets in Heaven, v^ ^ ]Jy harmony's laws alone are kejit mov'^^^^^f •^' M Q^\ ®ltm lU'c !50un(b of ^ttivth. (jhttiC aie feoundb of mirth in the niglit-air And lamps from every casement shown ; While voices blithe within are singing, That seem to say "Come," in every tone. Ah ! once how light, in Life's young season, My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay ; Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason Should I the syren call obey. ^=£ L_ And, see — the lamps still livelier glitter, The syren lips more fondly sound; No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter To sink in your rosy bondage bound. Sliall a bard, whom not the world in arms Could bend to tyranny's rude controul, Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms. And yield to a smile his freeborn soul? A ^ iii^ ^un-t, \J. \\u\, — theii laiigIiingeje'!,tlie\\lHlo, concealing,— \ LtX 'j >^-- Led Freedom'^ Rird their blavp at la'.ra3>m> Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, As if breathed from his brave heart's i-emains ; — Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear. Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!" And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep, "Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set, "Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep, — "It hath victory's life in it yet! "Should some ahen, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, "Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. "But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use "Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain, — "Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, "Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!" ADYERTISEMENT FIRST AND SECOND NUMBERS. f",-^^ HOUGH the beauties of the National Music of J^Mj Ireland have been very generally felt and acknowl- \^^ edged, yet it has happened, through the want of appropriate English words, and of the arrangement necessary to adapt them to the voice, that many of the most excellent compositions have hitherto remained in obscurity. It is intended, therefore, to form a Collection of the best Original Irish Melodies, with characteristic Symphonies and Accom- paniments; and with Words containing, as frequently as possible, allusions to the manners and history of the country. Sir John Stevenson has very kindly consented to undertake the arrangement of the Airs; and the lovers of Simple Na- tional Music may rest secure, that in such tasteful hands, the native charms of the original melody will not be sacrificed to the ostentation of science. TREFATORY NOTICES. In the poetical Part, promises of assistance have been received from several distinguished Literary Characters; particularly from Mr. Moore, whose lyrical talent is so peculiarly suited to such a task, and whose zeal in the undertaking will be best understood from the following Extract of a Letter which he has addressed to Sir John Stevenson on the subject : — I feel very anxious that a work of this kind should be undertaken. We have too long neglected the only talent for which our English neighbours ever deigned to allow us any credit. Our National Music has never been properly collected*; and, while the composers of the Continent have enriched their Operas and Sonatas with Melodies borrowed from Ireland — very often without even the honesty of ac- knowledgment — we have left these treasures, in a great degree, unclaimed and fugitive. Thus our Airs, like too many of our countrymen, have, for want of protection at home, passed into the service of foreigners. But we are come, I hojje, to a better period of both Politics and Music; * The writer forgot, when he made this assertion, that the public are indebted to Mr. Bunting for a very valuable collection of Irish Music; and that the patriotic genius of Miss Owenson has been employed upon some of our finest airs. PREFATORY NOTICES. and how much they are connected, in Ireland at least, appears too plaiulj' in the tone of sorrow and depression which characterises most of our early Songs. The task which you propose to me, of adapting words to these airs, is by no means easy. The Poet, who would follow the various sentiments which they express, must feel and understand that rapid fluctuation of spirits, that unaccountable mixture of gloom and levity, which composes the character of my countrymen, and has deeply tinged their Music. Even in their liveliest strains we find some melancholy note intrude, — some minor Third or flat Sev- enth, — which throws its shade as it passes, and makes even mirth interesting. If Burns had been an Irishmau (and I would willingly give up all our claims upon Ossian for him), his heart would have been proud of such music, and his genius would have made it immortal. Another difliculty (which is, however, purely mechanical) arises from the irregular structure of many of those airs, and the lawless kind of metre which it will in consequence be necessary to adapt to them. In these instances the Poet must write, not to the eye, but to the ear; and must be content to have his verses of that description which Cicero mentions, " Quos si cantu spoliaveris nuda remanebit oratio." That beautiful Air, "The Twisting of the Rope," which has all the romantic character of the Swiss Eanz des Vaches, PREFATORY NOTICES. is one of those wild and sentimental rakes which it will not be very easy to tie down in sober wedlock with Poetry. However, notwithstanding allthese difficulties, and the very little talent which I can bring to surmount them, the design appears to me so truly ifationai, that I shad I'eel much pleasure in giving it all the assistance in my power. Leicestershire, Feb.. 1807. ADVERTISEMENT THIRD NUMBER pN" presenting the Third Number of this work to the Public, the Publisher begs leave to ofter his \Wr^ acknowledgments for the very liberal patronage with which it has been honoured; and to express a hope that the unabated zeal of those who have hitherto so admirably conducted it, will enable him to continue it through many future Numbers with equal spirit, variety, and taste. The stock of popular Melodies is far from being exhausted ; and there is still in reserve an abundance of beautiful Airs, which call upon Mr. Moore, in the language he so well un- derstands, to save them from the oblivion to which they are hasteninfir. LETTER ON MUSIC, THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL. PREFIXED TO THE THIRD NUMBER. fsIIILE the Publisher of these Melodies very properly inscribes them to the Nobility and Gentry of Ireland in general, I have much pleasure in selecting one from that number, to whom my share of the work is partic- ularly dedicated. Though your Ladyship has been so long absent from Ireland, I know that you remember it well and warmly — that you have not allowed the charm of English society, like the taste of the lotus, to produce oblivion of your country, but that even the humble tribute which I ofier derives its chief claim upon your interest from the appeal which it makes to your patriotism. Indeed, absence, however fatal to some affections of the heart, rather strengthens our love for the land where we were born ; and Ireland is the country, of all others, wliicb an exile from it must remember with most enthusiasm. Those few darker LETTKR ON MUSIC. and less amiable traits with wliicli bigotry and misrule have stained her character, and which are too apt to disgust us upon a nearer intercourse, become softened at a distance, or altogether invisible ; and nothing is remembered but lier virtues and her misfortunes — the zeal with which she has always loved liberty, and the barbarous policy which has always withheld it from her — the ease with which lier generous spirit might be conciliated, and the cruel inge- nuity which has been exerted to "wring her into undutifui- ness."* It has been often remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all comments upon our history. The tone of detiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency — a burst of turbulence dying away into softness — the sor- rows of one moment lost in the levity of the next — and all that romantic mixture "of mirth and sadness, which is nat- urally produced by the efforts of a lively temperamejit to shake off", or forget, the wrongs which lie upon it, — such are the features of our history and cliaracter, which we find strong- ly and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are even many airs, which it is difficult to listen to, without recall- *A phrase which occurs in a Letter from the Earl of Desmond to he Earl of Ormond, in Elizabeth's time, — Scrinia Sacra, as quoted by Curry. LETTER O'X MUSIC. iug some period or event to which their expression seems applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose,* march- ing to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or to quit for ever the laud of their birth — like the bird that abandons the nest which human touch has violated; and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile,f mingling sad regret for the ties he leaves at home, with * There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxiliaries in "The Complete History of the Wars in Scotland under Montrose" (3660). See particularly, for the conduct of an Irishman at the battle of Aberdeen, chap. vi. p. 49; and for a tribute to the bravery of Colonel O'Kyan, chap. vii. 55. Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous success to the small band of Irish heroes under Macdonnell. fThe associations of the Hindu music, though more obvious and defined, were far less touching and characteristic. They divided their songs according to the seasons of the year, by which (says Sir William Jones) "they were able to recall the memory of autumnal merriment, LETTKPv ON MUSIC. sanguine expectations of the honours thai await him abroad — such honouro ae were won on the field of Fontenov, wlicro the valour of Irish Catholics turned the fbrti:nc of the day, and extorted from George the Second tliat memorable ex- clamation, "Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects ! " Though much has been said of the antiquity of dur music, it is certain that our liiiest and most ]><)j'ular airs are modern ; and iierha[)S we may look no further than the lar,t disgraceful cer.tury for the origin of nmst of those wikl and melancholy strains, wliich were at once the off- spring and sol'.ice of grief, and were applied to tlie miud as music was fornicrly to the body, "decantare loca do- lentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion* that none of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the six- teenth century ; and though, musical antiquaries refer us. at thu tlosc of the liaivest, or of soparatioii ami iiielanclioly tluiiug the colJ months," &c. — Asiatic Traiisaclioiis, vol. iii, ou tlic Musical Sludes oF the Hindus. — What the Abbe du Bo.i says of the syniphc- iiies of LuUy, may be asserted, with much more probability of our bold and iuipas^^ionc'd airs — -'elles auroient produit dc ccs cflFcts, qui nous paroissent iabuleux dans le rccit des anciens, si on Ics a ,oit fait en- tendre h des hoioraes d'uu naturel aussi vif que les .Vtlirniens." — Reflex, sur la PciiiUrc, li-c, torn. i. sect. 4.">. * Dissertation, T.refixcd to the 2d n.lunie of his Scoilish Hallods. LETTER ON MUSIC. for some of our melodies, to so early a period as the fifth century, I am persuaded that there are few, of a civilized description (and by this I mean to exclude all the savage Ceanaiis, Cries,* &c.), which can claim quite so ancient a date as Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged ; and, however heretical it may be to dissent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honour and happiness, without believing that Irish was the lan- guage spoken in Paradise;! that our ancestors were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks,J or that Abaris, the Hyperborean, was a native of the North of Ireland. § By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early acquainted with counter-point ;|| * Of which, some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr. Walker's Work upon the Irish bards. Mr. Bunting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of these barbarous rhapsodies. f See Advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin. ;];0'Halloran, vol. i. part iv. chap. vii. §Id. ib. chap. vi. II It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood . LETTER ON MUSIC. and they endeavour to support this conjecture by a well- known passage in Giraltlus, where he dilates, with such elaborate praise, upon the beauties of our national min- strelsy. But the terras of this eulogy are too vague, too deficient in technical accuracy, to prove that even Giraldns himself knew any thing of the artifice of counter-point. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers which might be cited, with much more plausibility, . to prove that the}- understood the arrangement of music in parts;* 3-et I believe it is conceded in general by the the diesis, or enliarmonic interval. — The Greeks seem to have formed their ears to this delicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difiScul- ties or ohjections may He in the way of its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne (Preludes de I'Harmonie, quest. 7.), that the theory of Music would be imperfect without it; and even in practice (as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, Observations on Florid Song, chap. i. sect. 16.), there is no good performer on tlie violin who does not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, though, from the imperfection of the instnimeiit, they are the same notes upon tlie piano-forte. The effect of modulation by enharmonic transitions is also very striking and beautiful. *The words noi.xvf.ia. and irepo^i^via, in a passage of Plato, and some expressions of Cicero in Fragment., lib. ii. de Eepubl., induced the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of coun- ter-point. M. Burette, however, has answered him, I think, satisfic- torily. (?].xameM d'un Pas.sa.M de Platon, in the 3d vol. of Histoiro LETTER OX MUSIC. learned, that, however grand and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the inge- nuity of modern Science to transmit the "light of Song" through the variegating prism of Harmony. Indeed, the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, the interval of the fourth was wanting,*) must have furnished but wild and refractory subjects to the harmonist. It was onl}" when the invention Je TAcad.) M. Iluet is of opinion (Pensees Diverses), that what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is sufficient to prove an acquaintance with harmony; but one of the strongest pas- sages, which I recollect, in favour of the supposition, occurs in the Treatise attributed to Aristotle — ntpi Ko-iiiou, Moviixr^ 8f o;ms aua *2Vnother lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what composers call, consecutive fifths: but this is an irregularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I may venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear, that I have surrendered it to the critic with no small reluctance. May there not be a little pedantry in adhering too rigidly to this rule? — I have been told that there are instances in Ilaydn, of an undisguised suc- cession of fifths; and Mr. Shield, in his Tntroducliun to Ilarniony, seems to intimate that Handel has been sometimes guilty of the same irregularity. LKTTKR ON MUSIC. (if Guido began to be known, and the powers of the harp* were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took the sweet character which interests us at present ; and while the Scotch persevered in the old mutilation of the scale,! onr music became gradually more amenable to the laws of liarmony and counter-point. *A singular oversigbt occurs in an Essay upon the Irish Harp, by Mr. Beauford, which is inserted in the Appendix to Walker's Historical Memoirs : — " Tlie Irish (says he) according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II. had two kinds of Harps, 'Hibernici tamen in duobus inusici generis instrumentis, quamvis prseeipitem et velocem, suaveni tamen et jucundum:' the one greatly bold and quick, the other soft and pleasing." — -How a man of Mr. Beauford's learning could so mis- take the meaning, and mutilate the grammatical construction of this extract, is unaccountable. The following is the passage as I find it entire in Bromton; and it requires but little Latin to perceive the in- justice which has been done to the words of the old Chronicler: — " Et cum Scotia, hujus terrae filia, utatur lyra, tympano et ehoro, ac Wal- lia cithara, tubis et choro Hibernici tamen in duobus musici generis instrumentis, quamvis prcecipitcm et velocem, siiavem temen et jucundum, crispatis modu'.is et iutricatis notulis, efficiunt harmonium," — Hist. Angelic. Script, page 1075. I should not have thought this error worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last Work, has adopted it implicitly.- f The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but there are strong traits of difference between their melodies and ours. They had for- merly the same passion for robbing us of our Saints, and the learned Dempster was for this offence called "The Saint Stealer." It was an LETTER ON MUSIC. Ill profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still keeps its originality sacred from their refinements; and though Carolan had frequent op- portunities of liearing the works of Germiniaui and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he laboured to imi- tate Corelli; and this union of manners, so very dissimilar, produces the same kind of uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of difierent styles of architecture. In gen- eral, however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign innovation,* and the Irishman, I suppose, who, by way of reprisal, stole Dempster's beau- tiful wife from him at Pisa. — See this anecdote in the Pinacotheca of Erythraeus, part i. p. 25. =i=Among other false refinemeuts of the art, our music (with the ex- ception perhaps of the air called " Mamma, Mamma," and one or two more of the same ludicrous description,) has avoided that puerile mim- icry of natural noises, motions, &c., which disgraces so often the works of even Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have had better taste than to become the patron of this imitative affectation. — Discours Pre- Uminaire de V Encyclopedie. The reader may find some good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression; a work whith, though under the name of Avison, was written, it is said, by Dr. Brown. LETTER ON MUSIC. chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the unskilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are noted down, en- cumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet, in most of them, " auri per ramos aura refuiget,"* the pure gold of the melody shines through the ungraceful foliage wliich sur- rounds it — and the most delicate and difficult duty of a compiler is to endeavour, as much as possible, by retrench- ing these inelegant superfluities, and collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to -restore the regu- larity of its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. I must again observe, that in doubting the antiquity of our music, my scepticism extends but to those polished specimens of the art, which it is difficult to conceive an- terior to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy, as the most zealous antiquary mayvbe enclined to allow her. In addi- tion, indeed, to the, power which music must always have possessed over the minds of people so ardent and suscepti- * Virgil, ^neid, lib. vi. verse 204 LKTTKR OX MUSIC. ble, the stimulus of persecution was not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were enno- bled with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels, in the reigns of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, were as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musi- cians, as the penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. With respect to the verses which I have written for these Melodies, as they are intended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for tlieir sound with somewhat more confidence than for their sense. Yet it would be afi'ectation to deny that I have given much attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry, if I unfortunately dis- grace the sweet airs of my country, by poetry altogether unworthy of tlieir taste, their energy, and their tenderness. Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from the rigours of literary criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political feel- ing, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sj-mpathizes with the music, would be suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly said, that the tendency of this publication is mischievous,* *Sce Letters, under tlie signatures of Timxus, &c., in the Morning I'ust, Pilot, and other papers. LETTER ON MUSIC. and that I have chosen these airs but as a vehicle of dan- gerous polities — as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of St. Augustin),* from which the wine of error might be administered. To those who identify nationality with treason, and who see, in every effort for Ireland, a system of hostility towards England, — to those, too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed b}' the faint- est gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness — like that Demophon of old, who, when the sun shone upon him, shivered f — to such men I shall not deign to offer an apology for the warmth of any political senti- ment which may occur in the course of these pages. But as there are many, among the more wise and tolerant, who, with feeling enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold or inflammatory should be avoided in a publica- tion of this popular description — I beg of these respected persons to believe, that tliere is no one who deprecates more sincerely than I do, any appeal to the passions of an igno- *"Non acouso verba, quasi vasa electa atque pretiosa; sed vinum erroris quod cum eis nobis propinatur." — Lib. i. Confess, chap. 16. •j- This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpanffo^ocoj) to Alexander the Great. — Scxl. Empir. Pyrrh. Hypoth. lib. i. LETTER ON MUSIC. rant and angiy multitude; but that it is not through that gross and inllammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers: it is found upon the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated — of those who can afford to have their natural zeal a little stimulated, with- out exciting much dread of the excesses into which it maj' hurry them ; and of many whose nerves may be, now and then, alarmed with advantage, as much more is to be gained by tlieir fears than could ever be expected from their justice. Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defense of my ingenious coadjutor. Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of hav- ing spoiled the simplicity of the airs by the chromatic richness of his symphonies, and the elaborate variety of his harmonies. We might cite the example of the admirable Ilaydn, who has sported through all the mazes of musical science, in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but it appears to me, that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music and, far from agree- LETTER ON MUSIC. ing with those fastidious critics who think that his sympho- nies have nothing kindred with the airs which they intro- duce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illu- minated initials of old manuscripts, which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more highly coloured and more curiously ornamented. In those airs, which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished itself; and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the the language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favourite strain has been dismissed, as having lost its charm of novelty for the year, it returns, in a harmonised shape, with new claims upon our interest and attention; and to those who study the delicate artifices of composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, considerable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, which might be heard with pleasure, independently of the rest— so artfully has the harmonist (if I may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweetness to every part. If your Ladyship's love of Music were not known to me, I should not have hazarded so long a letter upon the subject; but as, probably, I may have presumed too far upon your partiality, the best revenge you can take is to write me just as long a letter upon Painting; and I promise LETTER ON MUSIC. to attend to your theory of the art, with a pleasure only surpassed by that which I have so often derived from your practice of it. — May the mind which such talents adorn continue calm as it is bright, and happy as it is virtuous ! Believe me, 3'our Ladyship's Grateful Friend and Servant, Thomas Moork. ADVERTISEMENT FOURTH NUMBER. f^HIS Number of the Melodies ought to have ap- peared ranch 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. lie finds it necessary to make this avowal, not only for the purpose of removing all blame from the Publisher, but in conse- quence of a rumour which has been circulated industriously in Dublin, that the Irish Government had interfered to pre- vent the continuance of the Work. This would be, indeed, a revival of Henry the Eighth's enactments against Minstrels, and it is flattering to find that so much importance is attached to our compilation, even by such persons as the inventors of the report. Bishop PREFATORY NOTICES. LowTH, it is true, was of opinion, that one song, like the Hjmn to Harynodius. would have done more towards rous- ing the spirit of the Romans tluxn all the Philippics of Cicero. But we live in wiser and less musical times: bal- lads 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 rather 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 rea- sons 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 feel- ing the charms of a new and strange melody; while those, who have a quick sensibility for this enchanting art, will as naturally seek and enjoy novelt}-, because in every variety of strain they find a fresh combination of ideas; and the sound has scarcely reached the ear, before the heart lias rapidly translated it into sentiment. After all, however, it cannot be denied that the most popular of our National PREFATORY NOTICES. 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. Tiie least known in the collection is the Air of '■'■Loves Young Dream;" but it is one of those easy, artless strangers, whose merit the heart acknowledges instantly. T. M. Bury Street, St. James's, Nov. 1811. ADVERTISEMEJ^T FIFTH NUMBER. *T is but fair to those, who take an interest in this Work, to state that it is now very near its termination, and that the Sixth Number, which shall speedily appear, will, most probably, be the last of the series. Three volumes will then have been completed, according to the original plan, and the Proprietors desire me to say that a List of Subscribers will be published with the concluding Number. It is not so much from a want of materials, and still less from any abatement of zeal or industry, that we have adopted the resolution of bringing our task to a close ; but we feel so proud, for our country's sake and our own, of the interest which this purely Irish Work has excited, and so anxious lest a particle of tliat interest should be lost by any ill-judged protraction of its existence, that we think it wiser to take away the cup from the lip, while its flavour is yet, we trust, fresh and sweet, than to risk any longer trial of the charm, or give so much as not to PREFATORY NOTICES. leave some wish for more. In speaking thus, I allude entirely to the Airs, which are, of course, the main attrac- tion of these Volumes; and though we have still many popular and delightful Melodies to produce*, yet it cannot be denied that we should soon experience some difficulty in equalling the richness and novelty of the earlier num hers, for which, as we had the choice of all before us, we naturally selected only the most rare and beautiful. The Poetry, too, would be sure to 8\'mpathise with the de- cline of the Music; and, however feebly mj- words have kept jiace with the excellence of the Airs, they would fol- low their falliiu/ off, I fear, with wonderful alacrity*. So that, altogethci-, both pride and prudence counsel ns to stop, Avhile the Work is yet, we believe, flourishing and attract- ive, and in the imperial attitude "stantes mori," before we incur the charge either of altering for the worse, or what is equally unpardonable, continuing too long the same. We beg, however, to say, it is only in the event of our failing to find Airs as exquisite as most of those we have given, that we mean thus to anticipate the natural period of dissolution — like those Indians who put their relatives * Among these is Savourna DeeUsh, which 1 have hitherto only witli- held from the diffidence I feel in treading upon the same ground with Mr. Campbell, whose beautiful words to this fine Air have taken too strong pos- session of all ears and hearts, for me to think of producing any impression after him. I suppose, however, I must attempt it for the next Number. PREFATORY NOTICF.S. to death when they become feeble — and they who wish to retard this Euthanasia of the Irisli Melodies, cannot better eifect it than by contributing to our collection, not what are called curious Airs, for we have abundance of them, and they are, in general, only curious, but any real sweet and expressive Songs of our Country, which either chance or research maj- have brought into their hands. T. M. 3Iayfield Cottage, Ashbourne, December, 1818. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SIXTH NUMBE] ►N presenting this Sixth Number to the Public as our last, and bidding adieu to the Irish Harp for ever, we shall not answer very confidently for the strength of our resolution, nor feel quite sure that it may not prove, after all, to be only one of those eternal fare- wells which a lover lakes of his mistress occasionally. Our only motive, .iicieed, for discontinuing the Work was a fear that our treasures were nearly exhausted, and an unwillingness to descend to the gathering of mere seed- PREFATORY NOTICES. pearl, after the very valuable gems it has been our lot to feiring together. The announcement, however, of this in- tention, in our Fifth Number, has excited a degree of anxiety in the lovers of Irish Music, not only pleasant and flattering, but highly useful to us; for the various contributions we have received in consequence have en- riched our collection with so many choice and beautiful Airs, tbat if we keep to our resolution of publishing no more, it will certainly be an instance of forbearance and self-command, unexampled in the history of poets and musicians. To one Gentleman in particular, who has been many years resident in England, but who has not forgot, among his various pursuits, either the language or the melodies of his native country, we beg to offer our best thanks for the many interesting communications with which he has favoured us; and we trust that he and our other friends will not relax in those efforts by which we have been so considerably assisted; for, though the work must now be considered as defunct, yet — as Keaumur, the naturalist, found out the art of making the cicada sing after it was dead — it is not impossible that, some time or other, we may try a similar experiment upon the Irish Melodies. T. M. Mayjidd, Ashbonnic, March, 1815. ADVERTISEMENT SEVENTH NUMBER. F I had consulted only my own judgment, tins Work would not have extended beyond the Six Numbers already published ; which contain, perhaps, the flower of our national melodies, and have attained a rank in public favour, of which I would not willingly risk the forfeiture, by degenerating, in any way, from those merits that were its source. Whatever treasures of our music were still in reserve, (and it will be seen, I trust, that they are nu- merous and valuable,) I would gladly have left to future poets to glean, and, with the ritual words " iibi trado," would have delivered up the torch into other hands, be- fore it had lost much of its light in my own. But the call for a continuance of the work has been, as I under- PREFATORY NOTICES. stand from the Publisher, so general, and we have received so many contributions of old and beautiful airs,* the sup- pression of which, for the enhancement "of those we have published, would resemble too much the policy of the Dutch in burning their spices, that I have been persuaded, though not without considerable diffidence in my success, to commence a new series of the Irish Melodies. T. M. *One Gentleman, in particular, whose name 1 shall feel happy in being allowed to mention, has not only sent us nearly forty ancient airs, but has communicated many curious frai;ments of Irish poetry, and some interesting traditions current in the country where he resides, illustrated by sketches of the romantic scenery to which they refer; all of which, though too late for the present Number, will be of infinite service to us in the prosecution of our task. PREFATORY NOTICES. (XEQIO^TIOJT THE MARCHIONESS OF HEADFORT, TENTH NUMBER. , T is with a pleasure, not unmixed with melancholy, that I dedicate the last Number of the Irish Melo- dies to your Ladyship; nor can I have any doubt that the feelings with which you receive the tribute will be of the same mingled and saddened tone. To you, who though but little beyond the season of childhood, when the earlier numbers of this work appeared, lent the aid of your beau- tiful voice, and, even then, exquisite feeling for music, to the happy circle who met, to sing them together, under your father's roof, the gratification, whatever it may be, which this humble offering brings, cannot be otherwise than darkened by the mournful reflection, how many of the voices which then joined with ours are now silent in death ! PREFATORY NOTICES. I am not without hope that, as far as regards the grace and spirit of tlie Melodies, you will find this closing portion of the work not unworthy of what has preceded it. The Sixteen Airs, of which the Number and the Sup- plement consist, have been selected from the immense mass of Irish music which has been for years past accu- mulating in my hands ; and it was from a desire to include all that appeared most worthy of preservation, that the four supplementary songs which follow this Tenth Number have been added. Trusting that I may yet again, in remembrance of old times, liear our voices together in some of the harmonized airs of this Volume, I have the honour to subscribe myself. Your Ladyship's faithful Friend and Servant, Thomas Moore. ^lopt'rfijn i'n/fage, May, 1.834. MOORE'S American Poems ILLUSTRATED BY William Richi POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. PREFACE. ?^ 4^1HE Poems suggested to nie by my visit to Bermuda, in V!i p the year 1803, as well as by the tour which I made sub- sequently, through some parts of North America, have been hith- erto very injudiciously arranged; any distinctive character they may possess having been distui-bed and confused by their being mixed up not only with trifles of a much earlier date, but also with some portions of a classical story, in the form of Letters, which I had made some progress in before my departure from England. In the present edition, this awkward jumble has been remedied ; and all the Poems relating to my Transatlantic voy- age will be found classed by themselves. As, in like manner, the line of route by which I proceeded through some parts of the States and the Canadas, has been left hitherto to be traced confusedly through a few detached notes, I have thought that, to future readers of these poems, some clearer account of tlie course POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. of that journey might not be unacceptable, — together with such vestiges as may still linger in my memory of events now fast fading into the background of time. For the precise date of my departure from England, in the Phaeton frigate, I am indebted to the Naval Recollections of Captain Scott, then a midshipman of that ship. " We were soon ready," says this gentleman, "for sea, and a few days saw Mr. !Merry and his suite embarked on board. Mr. !Moore likewise took his passage with us on his way to Bermuda. We quitted Spithead on the 25th of September (1803), and in a short week lay becalmed under the lofty peak of Pico. In this situation, the Phaeton is depicted in the frontispiece of Moore's Poems." During the voyage, I dined very frequently with the officers of the gunroom ; and it was not a little gratifying to me to learn, from this gentleman's volume, that the cordial regard these social and open-hearted men inspired in me was not wholly unreturned, on their part. After mentioning our arrival at Norfolk, in Vir- ginia, Captain Scott says, " Mr. and Mrs. Merry left the Phaeton, under the usual salute, accompanied by Mr. Moore;" — then, adding some kind eomjjliments on the score of talents, &c., he concludes with a sentence which it gave me tenfold more pleasure to read, — " The gunroom mess witnessed the day of his departure Avith genuine sorrow." From Norfolk, after a stay of about ten days, under the hospitable roof of the British Consul, Colonel Hamilton, I proceeded, in the Driver sloop of war, to Bermuda. POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. There was then on that station another youthful sailor, who has since earned for himself a distinguished name among English writers of travels, Captain Basil Hall, — then a midshipman on board the Leander. In his Fragments of Voyages and Travels, this writer has called up some agreeable remiuiscenses of that period; in perusing which, — so full of life and reality are his sketches, — I found all my own naval recollections brought freshly to my mind. The very names of the different ships, then so familiar to my ears, — the Leander, the Boston, the Cambrian, — transported me back to the season of youth and those Summer Isles once more. The testimony borne by so competent a witness as Ca})tain Hall to the truth of my sketches of the beautiful scenery of Bermuda is of far too much value to me, in my capacity of trav- eller, to be here omitted by me, however conscious I must feel of but ill deserving the praise he lavishes on me, as a poet. Not that I pretend to be at all indifferent to such kind trib- utes; — on the contrary, those are always the most alive to praise, who feel inwardly least confidence in the soundness of their own title to it. In the present instance, however, my vanity (for so this uneasy feeling is always called) seeks its food in a different direction. It is not as a poet I invoke the aid of Captain Hall's opinion, but as a traveller and observer; it is not to my inven- tion I ask him to bear testimony, but to my matter of fact. "The most pleasing and most exact description which I know POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. of Bermuda," says this gentleman, "is to be found in Moore's Odes and Epistles, a work published many years ago. The reason why his aceount excels in beauty as well as in precision that of other men probably is, that the scenes described lie so much beyond the scope of ordinary observation in colder cli- mates, and the feelings which they excite in the beholder are so much higher than those jiroduced by the scenery we have been accustomed to look at, that, unless the imagination be- deeply drawn upon, and the diction sustained at a correspondent pitch, the words alone strike the ear, while the listener's fancy remains where it was. In IMoore's account there is not only no exagger- ation, but, on the contrary, a wonderful degree of temperance in the midst of a feast which, to his rich fancy, must have been peculiarly tempting. He has contrived, by a magic peculiarly his own, yet without departing from tlie truth, to sketch what was before him with a fervor which those who have never been on the spot might Mell be excused for setting down as the sport of the ]ioet's invention."' How truly politic it is in a poet to connect his verse with well- known and interesting localities, — to wed his song to scenes already invested witli fame, and thus lend it a chance of sharing the charm which encircles them, — I have myself, in more tiian one instance, very agreeably experienced. Among the memorials of this description, which, as ,1 learn with pleasure and pride, still keep lue remembered in some of those beautiful regions of POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. the West which I visited, I shall mentioD but one slight in- stance, as showing how potently the Genius of the Place may lend to song a life and imperishableness to which, in itself, it boasts no claim or pretension. The following lines, in one of my Bermudian Poems, 'Twas there, in the shade of the CaLahash Tree, With a few who could feel and remember like me, still live in memory, I am told, on those fairy shores, connecting my name with the picturesque spot they describe, and the noble old tree which I believe still adorns it. One of the few treas- ures (of any kind) I possess, is a goblet formed of one of the fruit shells of tiiis remarkable tree, which was brought from Bermuda, a few years since, by Mr. Dudley Costello, and which that gentleman, having had it tastefully mounted as a goblet, very kindly presented to me; the following words being part of the inscription which it bears: — "To Thomas Moore, Esq., this cup, formed of a calabash which grew on the tree that bears his name, near Walsingham, Bermuda, is inscribed by one who," &c. &c. From Bermuda I proceeded in the Boston, with my friend Captain (now Admiral) J. E. Douglas, to New York, from whence, after a short stay, Ave sailed for Norfolk, in Virginia; and about the beginning of June, 1804, I set out from that city on a tour through part of the States. At Washington, I passed POEMS KELATING TO AMERICA. some days with the English minister, Mi-. Merry ; and was, by him, presented at the levee of the President, Jefferson, whom I found sitting with General Dearborn and one or two other offi- cers, and iu the same homely costume, comjjrising slippers and Connemara stockings, in which Mr. Merry had been received by him — much to that formal minister's horror — when waiting upon him, in full dress, to deliver his credentials. My single inter- view with this remarkable person was of very short duration; but to have seen and spoken with the man who drew up the Declaration of American Independence was an event not to be forgotten. At Philadelphia, the society I was chiefly made acquainted with, and to which (as the verses addressed to " Delaware's green banks" sufficiently testify) I was indebted for some of my most agreeable recollections of the United States, consisted entirely of persons of the Federalist or Anti-Democratic party. Few and transient, too, as had been my opportunities, of judging for my- self of the political or social state of the country, my mind was left ojjen too much to the influence of the feelings and prejudices of those I chiefly consorted with; and, certainly, in no quarter was I so sure to find decided hostility, both to the men and the principles then dominant throughout the Union, as among officers of the British navy, and in the ranks of an angry Federalist opposition. For any bias, therefore, that, under such circum- stances, my opinions and feelings may be thought to have re- POEMS RELATING TO AMEKICA. ceived, full allowance, of course, is to be made in appraising the weight due to my authority ou the subject. All I can answer for, is the perfect sincerity and earnestness of the actual impres- sions, whether true or erroneous, under which my Epistles from the United States were written ; and so strong, at the time, I confess, were those impressions, that it was the only period of my past life during which I have found myself at all skeptical as to the soundness of that Liberal creed of politics, in the pro- fession and advocacy of which I may be almost literally said to have begun life, and shall most probably end it. Reaching, for the second time, New York, I set out from thence on the now familiar and easy enterprise of visiting the Falls of Niagara. It is but too true, of all grand objects, whether in nature or art, that facility of access to them mucli diminishes the feeling of reverence they ought to inspire. Of this fault, however, the route to Niagara, at that period — at least the portion of it which led through the Genesee country — could not justly be accused. The latter part of the journey, which lay chiefly through yet but half-cleared wood, we were obliged to perform on foot; and a slight accident I met with, in the course of our rugged walk, laid me up for some days at Buffalo. To the rapid growth, in that wonderful region, of, at least, the materials of civilization, — however ultimately they may be turned to account, — this flourishing town, which stands on Lake Erie, bears most ample testimony. Though little better, rOEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. at the time when I visited it, thau a mere village, consisting chiefly of huts and wigwams, it is now, by all accounts, a pojKi- lous and splendid city, with five or six churches, town hall, theatre, and other such appurtenances of a capital. In adverting to the comparatively rude state of Buffalo at that period, I should be ungrateful were I to omit mentioning, that, even then, on the shores of those far lakes, the title of " Poet," — however unworthily in that instance bestowed, — bespoke a kind and distinguishing welcome for its wearer; and that the Captain who commanded the packet in which I crossed Lake Ontario,^ in addition to other marks of courtesy, begged, on parting with me, to be allowed to decline payment for my passage. When we arrived, at length, at the inn, in the neighborhood of the Falls, it was too late to think of visiting them that even- ing; and I lay awake almost the whole night with the sound of the cataract in my ears. The day following I consider as a sort of era in my life; and the first glimpse I caught of that wonderful cataract gave me a feeling which nothing in this world can ever awaken again.^ It was through an opening among the trees, as we approached tlie spot where the full view of the Falls was to burst upon us, that I cauglit this glimpse of the mighty mass of waters folding smootlily over the edge of the precipice; and so overwhelming was the notion it gave me of tlie awful spectacle I was approaching, that, during the short interval that followed, imagination had fiir outrun the reality; and, vast and POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. wonderful as was the scene that then opened upon me, my first feeling was that of disappointment. It would have been impos- sible, indeed, for any thinj;- real to come up to the vision I had, in these few seconds, formed of it; and those awful scriptural words, " The fountains of the great deep were broken up," can alone give any notion of the vague wonders for which I was prepared. But, in spite of the start thus got by imagination, the triumph of reality was, in the end, but the greater; for the gradual glory of the scene that opened upon me soon took possession of my whole mind; presenting, from day to day, some new beauty or wonder, and, like all that is most sublime in nature or art, awakening sad as well as elevating thoughts. I retain in my memory but one other dream — for such do events so long past appear — which can in any respect be associated with the grand vision I have just been describing; and, however different the nature of their appeals to the imagination, I should find it diffi- cult to say on which occasion I felt most deeply affected, when looking on the Falls of Niagara, or when standing by moonlight among the ruins of the Coliseum. Some changes, I understand, injurious to the beauty of the scene, have taken place in the shape of the Falls since the time of my visit to them ; and among tliese is the total disappearance, by the gradual crumbling away of the rock, of the small leafy island which then stood near the edge of the Great Fall, and POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. whose tranquillity and unapproacliableness, in the midst of so much turmoil, lent it an interest which I thus tried to avail myself of, in a Song of the Spirit of that region:^ There, amid the island sedge, Just above the cataract's edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit at close of day, &c. &c. Another characteristic feature of the vicinity of the Falls, whicli, I understand, no longer exists, was the interesting settle- ment of the Tuscarora Indians. With the gallant Brock,'' who then commanded at I'ort George, I passed the greater part of my time during the few weeks I remained at Niagara; and a visit I paid to these Indians, in company with hini and his brother officers, on his going to distribute among them the cus- tomary presents and prizes, was not the least curious of the many new scenes I witnessed. These iMiople received us in all their ancient costume. The young men exhibited for our amuse- ment in the race, the bat game, and other sports, while the old and the women sat in groups nnder the surrounding trees; and the whole scene was as picturesque and beautiful as it was new to me. It is said that West, the American painter, when he first saw the Apollo, at IJome, exclaimed instantly, "A young Indian warrior ! " — and, however startling the association may appear, POEMS RELATING TO AMEKICA. some of the graceful and agile forms -which I saw that day among the Tuscaroras were such as would account for its arising in the young painter's mind. After crossing "the fresh- water ocean" of Ontario, I passed down the St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec, staying for a short time at each of these places ; and this part of my journey, as well as my voyage on from Quebec to Halifax, is sufficiently traceable through the few pieces of poetry that were suggested to me by scenes and events on the way. And here I must again venture to avail myself of the valuable testimony of Captain Hall to the truth of my descriptions of some of those scenes through which his more practiced eye followed me; — taking the liberty to omit in my extracts, as far as may be done without injury to the style or context, some of that generous surplusage of praise in which friendly criticism delights to indulge. In speaking of an excursion he had made up the River Ot- tawa, — "a stream," he adds, "which has a classical place in every one's imagination from Moore's Canadian Boat Song," Captain Hall proceeds as follows: — "While the poet above alluded to has retained all that is essentially characteristic and pleasing in these boat songs, and rejected all that is not so, he has contrived to borrow his inspiration from numerous surrounding circumstances, presenting nothing remarkable to the dull senses of ordinary travellers. Yet these highly poetical images, drawn in this way, as it were carelessly and from every hand, he has combined with POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. sucli graphic — I had ahuost said geographical — truth, that the effect is great even ujion those who have never, with tlicir own eyes, seen the ' Utawa's tide,' uor ' flown down the Rapids,' nor heard the 'bell of St. Anne's toll its evening chime;' while the same lines give to distant regions, previously consecrated in our imagination, a vividness of interest, when viewed on the spot, of which it is difficult to say how much is due to the magic of the poetry, and how much to the beauty of the real scene." ^ While on the subject of the Canadian Boat Song, an anecdote connected with that once popular ballad may, for my musical readers at least, possess some interest. A few years since, while staying in Dublin, I was presented, at his own request, to a gen- tleman who told me that his family had in their possession a curious relic of my youthful days, — being the first notation I had made, in penciling, of the air and words of the Canadian Boat Song, while on my way down the St. Lawrence, — and that it was their wish I should add my signature to attest the authen- ticity of the autograph. I assured him with truth tliat I had wholly forgotten even the existence of such a memorandum; that it would be as much a curiosity to myself as it could be to any one else, and that I should feel thankful to be allowed to see it. In a day or two after, my request was complied with, and the following is the history of this musical " relic." In my passage down the St. Lawrence, I had with me two travelling companions, one of whom, named Harkness, the son POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. of a wealtliy Dublin merchant, has been some years dead. To tliis young friend, on parting with him, at Quebec, I gave, as a keepsake, a volume I had been reading on the way, — Priestley's Lectures on History; and it was upon a flyleaf of this volume I found I had taken down, in penciling, both the notes and a few of the words of the original song by which my own boat glee had been suggested. The following is the form of my memo- i-andum of the original air: — Then follows, as penciled down at the same moment, the first verse of my Canadian Boat Song, with air and words as they are at present. From all this it will be perceived, that, in my own setting of the air, I departed in almost every respect but the time from the strain our voyageurs had sung to us, leaving the music of the glee nearly as much my own as the words. Yet, how strongly impressed I had become with the notion that this was the identical air sung by the boatmen, — how closely it linked itself in my imagination with the scenes and sounds amidst which it had occurred to me, — may be seen by reference to a POEMS EELATING TO AMERICA. uote appended to the glee as first jiublished, which will be found in the following pages. To the few desultory and, perhaps, valueless recollections I have tlius called up, respecting the contents of our second volume, I have only to add, that the heavy storm of censure and criticism, — some of it, I fear, but too well deserved, — which, both in America and in England, the publication of my "Odes and Epistles" drew down upon me, was followed by results which have far more than compensated for any pain such attacks at the time may have inflicted. In the most formidable of all ray censors, at that period, — the great master of the art of criticism, in our day, — I have found ever since one of the most cordial and highly valued of all my friends; while the good will I have experienced from more than one distinguished American sufficiently assures me that any injustice I may have done to that land of freemen, if not long since wholly forgotten, is now remembered only to be forgiven. As some consolation to me for the onsets of criticism, I re- ceived, shortly after the appearance of my volume, a letter from Stockholm, addressed to " the author of Epistles, Odes, and other Poems," and informing me that " the Princes, Nobles, and Gen- tlemen, who composed the General Chapter of the most Illus- trious, Equestrian, Secular, and Chapteral Order of St. Joachim," had elected me as a Knight of this Order. Notwithstanding the grave and official style of the letter, I regarded it, I own, at POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. first, as a mere ponderous piece of pleasantry ; and even suspected that in tlie name of St. "Joacliim" I could detect the low and irreverent pun of St. Jokeliim. On a little inquiry, however, I learned that there actually ex- isted such an order of knighthood; that the title, insignia, &c., conferred by it had, in the instances of Lord Nelson, the Duke of Bouillon, and Colonel Imhoff, who were all Knights of St. Joachim, been authorized by the British court; but that since then, this sanction of the order had been withdrawn. Of course, to the reduction thus caused in the value of the honor was owing its descent in the scale of distinction to " such small deer " of Parnassus as myself I wrote a letter, however, full of grateful acknowledgment, to Monsieur Hansson, the Vice Chancellor of the Order, saying that I was unconscious of having entitled my- self, by any public service, to a reward due only to the benefac- tors of mankind ; and therefore begged leave most respectfully to decline it. POEMS KELATING TO AMERICA, FRANCIS, EARL OF MOIRA, GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC. My Lord : — It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedi- cation to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce a eulogium on Hercules. "On Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a sim- ilar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the ])anegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your in- dulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to present. I am, my Lord, With every feeling of attachment and respect, Your Lordship's very devoted Servant, Thomas Moore. 27, Bury Street, St. James's, April 10, 1800. POEMS KELATINQ TO AMERICA. PREFACE. ^^^li HE princiiial poems in the following collection were writ- ^j^ F ten during au absence of fourteen months from Europe. Though curiosity was certainly not the motive of my voyage to America, yet it happened that the gratification of curiosity was the only advantage which I derived from it. Finding myself in the country of a new people, whose infancy had promised so much, and whose progress to maturity has been an object of such interesting speculation, I determined to emjiloy the short period of time, which my plan of return to Europe afforded me, in travelling through a few of the States, and acquiring some knowledge of the inhabitants. The impression which my mind received from the character and manners of these republicans, suggested the Epistles which are written from the city of "Washington and Lake Erie. How far I was right, in thus assuming the tone of a satirist against a peoijle whom I viewed but as a stranger and a visitor, is a doubt POEMS RELATING TO AJMERICA. which my feelings did not allow me time to investigate. All I presume to answer for is the fidelity of the picture which I have given; and though prudence might have dictated gentler lan- guage, truth, I think, would have justified severer. I went to America with prepossessions by no means unfavor- able, and indeed rather indulged in many of those illusive ideas, with respect to the purity of the government and the primitive happiness of the people, which I had early imbibed in my native country, where, unfortunately, discontent at home enhances every distant temptation, and the western world has long been looked to as a retreat from real or imaginary oj)pression ; as, in short, the elysian Atlantis, where persecuted patriots might find their visions realized, and be welcomed by kindred spirits to liberty and repose. In all these flattering expectations I found myself completely disappointed, and felt inclined to say to America, as Horace says to his mistress, "intentata nites." Brissot, in the preface to his travels, observes, that " freedom in that country is carried to so high a degree as to border upon a state of nature ; " and there certainly is a close approximation to savage life, not only in the liberty which they enjoy, but in the violence of party spirit and of private animosity which results from it. This illib- eral zeal embitters all social intercourse; and, though I scarcely could hesitate in selecting the party, whose views appeared to me the more jiure and rational, yet I was sorry to observe that, in asserting their opinions, they both assume an equal share of POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. intolerance; the Democrats, consistently with their principles, exhibiting a vulgarity of rancor, which the Federalists too often are so forgetful of their cause as to imitate. The rude familiarity of the lower orders, and indeed tiie un- polished state of society in general, would neither surprise nor disgust if they seemed to flow from that simplicity of character, that honest ignorance of the gloss of refinement which may be looked for in a new and inexperienced people. But, when we find them arrived at maturity in most of the vices, and all the pride of civilization, while they arc still so far removed from its higher and better characteristics, it is impossible not to feel that this youthful decay, this crude anticipation of the natural period of corruption, must repress every sanguine hope of the future energy and greatness of America. I am conscious that, in venturing these few remarks, I have said just enough to offend, and by no means sufficient to con- vince; for the limits of a preface prevent me from entering into a justification of my opinions, and I am committed on the sub- ject as effectually as if I had written volumes in their defence. My reader, however, is apprised of the very cursory observation upon which these opinions are founded, and can easily decide for himself upon the degree of attention or confidence which they merit. With respect to the poems in general, which occupy the fol- lowing pages, I know not in what manner to ajwlogize to the POEMS KELATING TO AMERICA. jiublic for intruding upon tlieir notice such a mass of uncon- nected trifles, such a world of epicurean atoms as I liave here brought in conflict together. To say that I have been tempted by the liberal offers of my bookseller, is an excuse which can hope for but little indulgence from the critic; yet I own that, without this seasonable inducement, these poems very possibly would never have been submitted to the world. The glare of publication is too strong for such imperfect productions: they should be shown but to the eye of friendship, in that dim light of privacy which is as favorable to poetical as to female beauty, and serves as a veil for faults, while it enhances every charm which it displays. Besides, this is not a period for the idle oc- cupations of poetry, and times like the present require talents more active and more useful. Few have now the leisure to read such trifles, and I most sincerely regret that I have had the leisure to write them. POEMS BELATING TO AMERICA. ADDRESS. N presenting this new and revised edition of the present Great Work to the American Public, containing the Irish ISIelodies, ilhistrated by the matchless pencil of Maclise, and the American Poems, now for the first time illustrated in any country, the subscriber would most respectfully state that the great success of the first edition of this work, has encouraged him to still greater efforts in producing more highly-finished engravings than those contained in the earlier editions; but, as to their merits, he will express no opinion, simply leaving that to an enlightened and refined public taste. The genuine admirers of Moore will estimate the value of this new edition, by the simple llict that it contains, in addition, the American poems highly illustrated. Many condemn Moore for his sharp criticisms upon our country, as being ungenerous and ill-natured, and as showing a great want of acuteness in obser- vation; but he, in later years, when Washington Irving was visiting him, expressed himself in the fullest and strongest man- POEMS RELATING TO AMERICA. ner, on the subject of his writings on America, as being the greatest sin of his early life. To the press of the country, I return my most sincere thanks for the invariably kintl and very liberal notices, with which they have been pleased to greet it, thus assisting in bringing the work prominently before the public, and thereby making it a complete success. And to all my friends and patrons, who have taken a deep interest in the successful termination of my many years' " labor of love," I tender my warmest thanks. William Eiches. ^Wttt Moon ! if, like Crotona's sage,° By any spell my liand could dare To make thy disk its ample page, And -write my thoughts, my wishes there; How many a friend, whose careless eye Now wanders o'er that starry sky, Should smile, upon thy orb to meet The recollection, kind and sweet, wm J^M The reverips of fond regret, The promise, never to forget, And all my heart and soul would send To many a dear-lov'd, distant friend. How little, when we parted last, I thought those pleasant times were past, Forever past, when brilliant joy Was all my vacant heart's employ : When, fresh from mirth to mirth again, We thought the rapid hours too few ; Our only use for knowledge then To gather bliss from all we knew. Delicious days of whim and soul ! When, minglingjore and laugh together. We lean'd the book on Pleasure's bowl. And tnrn'd the leaf with Folly's feather. Little I thought that all were fled, That, ere tliat summer's bloom was shed, My eye should see the sail unfurl 'd That wafts me to the western world. And yet, 'twas time; — in youth's sweet days. To cool that season's glowing rays, v3| f MM =^4^1? Tlie heart a wiiile, with wanton wing, May dip and dive in Pleasure's spring; But, if it wait for winter's breeze, The spring will chill, the heart will freeze. And then, that Hope, that fairy Hope, 0, she awak'd such happy dreams. And gave my soul such tempting scope For all its dearest, fondest schemes. That not Verona's child of song, When flying from the Phrygian shore, With lighter heart could bound along. Or pant to be a wanderer more ! ' Even now delusive hope will steal Amid the dark regrets I feel, Soothing, as yonder placid beam Pursues the murmurers of the deep. And lights them with consoling gleam, And smiles them into tranquil sleep. 0, such a blessed night as this, I often think, if friends were near. How we should feel, and gaze with bliss Upon the moon-bright scenery here! /qUE! ,^W'^ The sea is 'like a silvery lake, AikI, o'er its calm the vessel glides Gently, as if it fear'd to wake The slumber of the silent tides. The only envious cloud that lowers Hath hung its shade on Pico's height Where dimly, 'mid the dusk, he towers, And scowling at this heav'n of light, Exults to see the infant storm Cling darkly round his giant form ! Now, could I range those verdant isles, Invisible, at this soft hour. And see the looks, the beaming smi That brighten many an orange bowei And could I lift each pious veil, And see the blushing cheek it shades 0, I should have full many a tale. To tell of young Azorian maids." Yes, Strangford, at this hour, perhaps, Some lover (not too idly blest, Like those, who in their ladies' laps May cradle every wish to rest,) m \§=E] Warbles, to touch his dear one's soul, Those madrigals, of breath divine. Which Camoen's harp from Rapture stole And gave, all glowing warm, to thine."' 0, could the lover leai'n from thee, And breathe them with thy graceful tone. Such sweet, beguiling minstrelsy Would make the coldest nymph liis own. But hark !— the boatswain's pipings tell 'T is time to bid my dream farewell : Eight bells — the middle watch is set; Good niglit, my StrangPord! — ne'er forget That, fir beyond the western sea Is one, whose heart remembers thee. ---^'if9SMMS^^:'^ — wm ^) %^ v^^ I leflected, liow soon in the cup of Desin' The peail of the soul may be melted away ; How quickly, alas, the pure sparkle of fire We mheiit from heav'n, may be quench'd in the clay ; And I pi a) d of that Spirit who lighted the flame, That Pleasure no more might its purity dim; v\^'. So that, sullied but little, or brightly the same, 'v^ I might give back the boon I had borrow'd fiom Him. How blest WIS the thought! it a})pear'd as if Hea\en Hid ihe^idy an opening to Paradise shown; As if, passion ill chasten'd and error forgiven, M} heait then began to be purely its own. fh-yT- look d to the west, and the beautiful sky WIikIi morning had clouded, was clouded no more "0, thus," I exclaimed, "may a heavenly eye 'Shed liii;ht on the soul that was darken'd before." ;?C^^^€^?-s^'T^ M^^-?^J=^52^^V^-.^ , when I see that wing, so bi Grow languid with a moment's Hig Attempt the paths of air in vain, And sink into tlie waves again; Alas! the tiattering pride is o'er; Like thee, a while, the soul may soa But erring man must blush to thin Like thee, again the soul may smk, O Virtue ! when thy clime I seel Let not ray spirit's flight be weak; Let me not, like this feeble thing. With brine still dropping from its w Just sparkle in the solar glow And plunge again to depths below ; But, when I leave the grosser thron With whom my soul hath dwelt so oe, in that aspiring day, every lingering stain away, panting for thy purer air, at once and fix me there. liV/ ^^} %X^ sweet to behold, wlien tlie billows ok ^ , " ' / \ sleeping, ~^y'^\ '7' a 1-111 • (^'' 'i'->^ borne gay-colour d bark moving grace- H-^I,'M\\ fully by; ^/fV; No damp on her deck but the even-tide'b wet|) _,iVV^£Z. ing, ^ ^^^ No bieath in her &ailb but the summer-wind ^ l\ B:gh. %\^ Yet who would not turn, with a fonder emotion To gaze on the life-boat, though rugged and worn. Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean, The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn ' Oh ! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber Around us like summer-barks idly have play'd. When storms are abroad we may find in the fe-boat, to fly to our A warm tear gusli'd, the wintry air Congeal'd it as it flow'd away: All night it lay an ice-drop there, At morn it glitter'd in the ray! An angel, wandering from her sphere Who saw this bright, this frozen To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, And hung it on her diadem ! And, mild as evening's matron hour, ^ Looks on the faintly shutting flowei , A mother saw our eyelids close, And bless'd them into pure repose ; Then, haply if a week, a day, I linger'd from that home away. How long the little absence seem'd ! How bright the look of welcome beam'd, As mute you heard, with eager smile, My tales of all that pass'd the while ! Yet now, my Kate, a gloomy sea Rolls wide between that home and me ; The moon may thrice be born and die, Ere ev'n that seal can reach mine eye, Which used so oft, so quick to come. Still breathing all the breath of home,— As if, still fresh, the cordial air From lips belov'd were lingering there. ^te». But now, alas, — far different fate ! It comes o'er ocean, slow and late, ^ When the dear hand that fill'd its fold \ _^^^ With words of sweetness may lie cold. ^^ ^'KSiL fe ^ 1 But hence that gloomy thought! at k\st, |C2:; Belov'cl Kate, the waves are past: I tread on earth securely now, And the green cedar's living boug Breathes more refreshment to my eyes Than could a Claude's divinest dyes. At length I touch the happy sphere To liberty and virtue dear, Where man looks up, and, proud to claim His rank withm the social frame, a grand system round him roll. Himself its centre, sun, and soul ! Far from the shocks of Europe — far From every wild, elliptic star That, shooting with a devious fire. Kindled by heaven's avenging ire, So oft hath into chaos hurl'd The systems of the ancient world. Tlie warrior here, in arms no more Thinks of the toil, the conflict o'er. And glorying in the freedom won Foi health and shiine, foi sue anel ^on, Smiles on the dusky webs that Iiide His sleeping swoid s leraembti d piide While Peace, with sunny cheeks of toi Walks o'ei the fiee, unlorded soil, Effacing with her splendid share The drops that war had sprinkled there, Thrice happy land ! where he wdio flies From the dark ills of other skies, From scorn, or want's unnerving woes, May shelter him in proud repose : Hope sings along the yellow sand His welcome to a patriot land ; The mighty wood, with pomp, receives The stranger in its world of leaves, Which soon their barren glory yield To the warm shed and cultur'd field; A nd he, who came, of all bereft. To whom malignant fate had left Nor home nor friends nor country dear. Finds home and friends and country hereT' T Such IS the picture, warmly such That Fancy long, with floiiil touch, Had painted to iny sanguine eye Of man's new world of liberty. 0, ask me not, if Truth have yet Her seal on Fancy's promise set; If ev'n a glimpse my eyes behold Of that imagin'd age of gold; — Alas, not yet one gleaming trace!'* Never did youth, who lov'd a face As sketch'd by some fond pencil's skill And made by fancy lovelier still, iShrink back with more of sad surprise When the live model met his eyes, Tlian I have felt, in sorrow felt, To find a dream on which I 've dwelt From boyhood's hour, thus fade and flee At touch of stern reality ! But, courage, yet, my wavering heart! Blame not the temple's meanest part," Till thou hast traced the fabric o'er: — ,'; As yet, we have beheld no more tu' Tlian just the .porch to Freedom's fane And, though a sable spot may stain The vestibule, 'tis wrong, 'tis sin To doubt the godhead reigns within ! \| So here I pause — and now, my Kate, To you, and those dear friends, whose fate Touches more near this homesick soul Than all the Powers from pole to pole, One word at parting, — in the tone Most sweet to you, and most my own. The simple strain I send you here,'" Wild though it be, would charm youi eai Did you but know the trance of thought In which my mind its numbers caught 'T was one of those half-waking dieam That haunt me oft, when music seems To bear my soul in sound along, vi And turn its feelings all to song. I thought of home, the according U} s Game full of dreams of other days «Wn- '^^ / f / -^E^-^ Frebhly in each succeeding note I found some young remembrance float. Till following, as a clue, that strain, I wander'd back to home again. 0, love the song, and let it oft Live on your lip, in accents soft. Say that it tells you, simply well, All I have bid its wild notes tell, — Of Memory's dream, of thoughts that Glow with the light of joy that's set. And all the fond heart keeps in store Of friends and scenes beheld no more. And now, adieu! — this artless air, With a few rhymes, in transcript fair, Are all the gifts I yet can boast To send you from Columbia's coast; But when the sun, with warmer smile, Shall light me to my destin'd isle," You shall have many a cowslip bell Where Ariel slept, and many a shell, In which that gentle spirit drew ( From honey flowers the morning dew. ^iJ\l^f/ ■■^rf^^^^^^&lfe^' ,'kvri|';;j :il -i g^gaUiul. ii'% ^^if^ THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. "They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in Ins ra\ ings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Hwamp it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morassesj — Anon. "La Poesie a ses monstres corame la nature." — D'Alembert. ''(LiIWM made her a grave, too cold and damp " For a soul so warm and true ; "And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,' " Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, "She paddles her white canoe. "And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, "And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And Lll hide the maid in a cypress tree, " When the footstep of death is near." 'UfM ^-^^^«^ Awi} to the Di'^inil R\\ xmp he speed-, — His path was rugged and feore Thiouoh tangled junipei beds of leeds Through many a len, where tlie serpent feeds, And man never trod before. And, when on the eaitli 1ip ^ui It -^lumbei liib pyelicK knew He lay, wlicie tlip deadly Mne doth weep Itb venomous, tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew ! And near him the she wolf stirr'd the brake. And the copper snake breath'd in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " 0, when shall I see the dusky Lake, "And the white canoe of my dear?" He saw the Lake, and the meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd — " Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!" And the dinr shore echoed, for many a night. The name of the death-cold maid. Till he hollow d a boat of the birchen bark, Which till led him off from shore; Fai far he follow'd the meteor spark, Tlie wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return 'd no more. Tilts' rox, 'Jittmuda Is/iinds. 5l0 X\\t ^ttavdiioncjsjs Joivagcv ssi goncfjall. %i sDHidUl where'er you roam, wliatever land Wooes the bright touches of that artist hand ; Whether you sketch the valley's golden meads. Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads; Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep, At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep; \^0r musmg o'er the Lake, at day's decline, Milk the last shadow on that holy shrine," :t^ft /i sr rMhMp J^ '% Where, many a night, the shade of Tell com- plains Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains; 0, lay the pencil for a moment by. Turn from the canvas that creative eye, And let its splendor, like the morning ray Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay. Yet, Lady, no — for song so rude as mine, Chase not the wonders of your art divine; Still, radiant eye, upon the canvas dwell; Still, magic finger, weave your potent spell , And, while 1 sing the animated smiles Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles, 0, might the song awake some bright design, Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy Ime, Proud were my soul, to see its humble thought On painting's mirror so divinely caught; While wondering Genius, as he lean'd to tiace The famt conception kindling into grace. Might love my numbers for the spark they thiew /^^.^ An^^^ ^- .$LA,i^ Which bards of old, with kindly fancy, plac'd For hapjiy spirits in th' Atlantic waste?" There listening, while, from earth, each breeze that came Brought echoes of their own undying fame, In eloquence of eye, and dreams of song, They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along :- Nor yet in song, that mortal ear might suit, For every spirit was itself a lute. Where Virtue waken'd, with elysian breeze, Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies. Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland Floated our bark to this enchanted land, — These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown. Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone, — - Not all the charm, that ethnic fancy gave To blessed arbors o'er the western wave. Could wake a dream, more soothing or sublime. Of bowers ethereal, and the Spirit's clime. Bright rose the morning, every wave was still,///! When the first perfume of a cedar hdl T , ^=f\;^ Sweetly awak'd us, and, with smiling charms, ^ The fairy harbor woo'd us to its arm Gently we stole, before the whispering wind, Through plaintain shades, that round, like awnings, twin'd. And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails. Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales; While, far reflected o'er the wave serene, Each wooded island shed so soft a green That the enamour'd keel, with whispering play, Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way. Never did weary bark more gladly glide, Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide! Along the margin, many a shining dome, White as the palace of a Lapland gnome, Brighten'd the wave; — in every myrtle grove Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love. Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade; And, while the foliage interposing play'd. Lending the scene an ever-changing grace, Fancy would love, in glimpses vague, to trace The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch," And dream of temples, till her kindling torch Lighted me back to all the glorious days Of Attic genius ; and I seem'd to gaze \0n marble, from the rich Pentelic mount, Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount. Then tliought I, too, of thee, most sweet of all The spirit race that come at poet's call, Delicate Ariel ! who, in brighter hours, Liv'd on the perfume of those honeyed bowers, In velvet buds, at evening, lov'd to lie, And win with music every rose's sigh. Though weak the magic of my humble strain To charm your spirit from its orb again, Yet, 0, for her, beneath whose smile I sing. For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky, Could smooth its feather and relume its dye,) Descend a moment from your starry sphere. And, if the lime-tree grove that once was dear, The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill, The sparkling grotto can delight you still, cull their choicest tints, their softest light. Weave all these spells into one dream of night. And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies, Slied the warm picture o'er her mental eyes , Take for the task her own creative spells, And brightly show what song but faintly tell« ^^ She open'd, with her golden key, The casket where my memory lays, Those gems of classic poesy. Which time has sav'd from ancient days. Take one of these, to Lais sung, — I wrote it while my hammock swung, As one might write a dissertation Upon "Suspended Animation!" Sweet" is your kiss, my Lais dear. But, with that kiss I feel a tear Gush from your eyelids, such as start When those who 've dearly lov'd must part. Sadly you lean your head to mine. And mute -those arms around me twine, Your hair adown my bosom spread, All glittering with the tears you shed. In vain I 've kissed those lids of snow, For still, like ceaseless founts they flow, Bathing our cheeks, whene'er they meet. Why is it thus? do, tell me, sweet! Ah, Lais! are my bodings right? Am I to lose you? is to-night Our last go, false to heaven and me! Your very tears are treachery. t^UdHt wbile in air I floating hung, Such was the strain, Morgante mio! The muse and I together sung, With Boreas to make out the trio. But, bless the Httle fairy isle! How sweetly after all our ills, We saw the sunny morning smile Serenely o'er its fragrant hills; And felt the pure, delicious flow Of airs, that round this Eden blow Freshly as ev'n the gales that come O'er our own healthy hills at home. Could you but view the scenery fair, That now beneath my window lies. You 'd think, that nature lavish'd there Her purest wave, her softest ski To make a heaven for love to sigh in, For bards to live and saints to die in. Close to my wooded bank below. In glassy calm the waters sleep. And to the sunbeam proudly show The coial locks they love to steep."' The faulting breeze of morning fa The (how-y boat moves slowly past. And I can almost touch its sails /< The noontide sun a splendor pours That hghts up all these leafy shores; While his own heav'n, its clouds and beams, So pictured in the waters lie, That each small bark, in passing, seems To float along a burning sky. .C/ZX ^ for the pinnace lent to thee," Blest dreamer, who, in vision b*right, Didst sail o'er heaven's solar sea And touch at all its isles of light. Sweet Venus, what a clime he found Within thy orb's ambrosial round !^' There spring the breezes, rich and warm, That sigh around thy vesper car ; And angels dwell, so pure of form That each appears a living star.'° These are the sprites, celestial queen ! Thou sendest nightly to the bed Of her I love, with touch unseen Tiiy planet's brightening tints to shed ; To lend that eye a light still clearer. To give that cheek one rose blush more, And bid that blushing lip be dearer. Which had been all too dear before. But, whither means the muse to roam? 'T is time to call the wanderer home. Who could have thought the nymph would perch Up in the clouds with Father Kircher? So, health and love to all your mansion ! Long may the bowl that pleasures bloom in, The flow of heart, the soul's expansion, Mirth and song, your board illumine. At all your feasts, remember too, When cup'5 aie spaikling to the bum, That heie ib one who dunks to you. And 0, as waunly dunk to huu ^ M '^^ holy calm profound Vln awe like this, that ne'er was give: To pleasure's thrill 'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, And the soul, listening to the sound, Lies mute and still. 'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow In the cold deep, Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow No more shall wake the heart or eye, But all must sleep. Well ! — there are some, thou stormy To whom thy sleep would be a treasure; 0, most to him. Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, Nor left one honey drop to shed Round sorrow's brim. Yes — he can smile serene at death : Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping Of friends who love him ; Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath No more shall move him. 3^^j^ .^^^: vz m\0 U fa. NEA Tvpai'va. EuRiPiD. Medea, v. 967. plHU, tempt me not to love again, There was a time when love was sweet ; Dear Nea! had I known thee then, Our souls had not been slow to meet. But, 0, this weary heart hath run, So many a time, the rounds of pain. Not ev'n for thee, thou lovely one, Would I endure such pangs again. If there be climes, where never yet The jmnt of beauty's foot was set. Where man may pass his loveless nights, Unfever'd by her false delights. Thither my wounded soul would fly, Where rosy cheek or radiant eye Should bring no more their bliss, or pain m) u Nor fetter me to ^ ^. ^^ = '^■y^ fil,'B!!--...iSr ^^ Dear absent girl ! whose eyes of light, Though little priz'd when all my own, Now float before me, soft*and bright As when they first enamouring shone, - What hours and days have I seen glide. While fix'd, enchanted, by thy side. Unmindful of the fleeting day, I 've let life's dream dissolve away. bloom of youth profusely shed ! moments! simply, vainly sped. Yet sweetly too — for Love perfum'd The flame which thus my life consum'd; And brilliant was the chain of flowers, In which he led my victim hours. ^ Say, Nea, say, couklst thou, like her, When warm to feel and quick to err, Of loving fond, of roving fonder, This thoughtless soul might wish to wander, - Couldst thou, like her, the wish reclaim. Endearing still, reproaching never. Till ev'n this heart should burn with shame, And be thy own more fix'd than ever? 1 vr No, no — on earth there 's only one (f^ Coukl bind such faithless folly fast , And sure on ear.th but one alone Could make such virtue false at last ' Nea, the heart which she forsook, For thee were but a worthless shrine — Go, lovely girl, that angel look Must thrill a soul more pure than mine. 0, thou shalt be all else to me, That heart can tell or tongue can feign , I '11 praise, admire, and worship thee. But must not, dare not, love again. t^cfe^^ That little Bay, where turning in From ocean's rude and angry din, As lovers steal to bliss. The billows kiss the shore, and then Flow back into the deep again. As though they did not kiss. Remember, o'er its circling flood 111 wnat, a aangero"« dream we stood— The silent sea before us. Around us, all the gloom of grove, That ever lent its shade to love. No eye but heaven's o'er us ! ^^-^ I saw you blush, you felt me tremble. In vain would formal art dissemble All we then look'd and thought; 'T was more than tongue could dare rev 'T was ev'ry thing that young hearts feel By Love and Nature taught. I stooj^'d to cull, with faltering hand, A shell that, on the golden sand. Before us faintly gleam'd; I trembling rais'd it, and when you Had kiss'd the shell, I kiss'd it too — How sweet, how wrong it seem'dJ r/^ "^ ^■ 34ti r 1 ^>-".:-^ ^0U read it in these spell-bound eyes, And there alone should love be read ; You hear me say it all in sighs, And thus alone should love be said. Then dread no more; I will not speak; Although my heart to anguish thrill, I'll spare the burning of your cheek, And look it ill m il- ik , sti" > Heard you tlie wish I dar'd to name, To murmur on that luckless night, When passion broke the bonds of shame. And love grew madness in your sight? Divinely through the graceful dance. You seem'd to float in silent song. Bending to earth that sunny glance. As if to light your ste 0, how could others dare to touch That hallow'd form with hand so free. When but to look was bliss too much, Too rare for all but love and me ! With smiling eyes, that little thought How fatal were the beams they threw, My trembling hands you lightly caught. And round me, like a spirit, flew. Heedless of all, but you alone, — And you, at least, should not condemn, If, when such eyes before me shone. My soul forgot all eyes but them, — /^ I dar'd to whisper passion's vow, — For love had ev'n of thought bereft me, — Nay, half way bent to kiss that brow, But, with a bound, you blushing left me. Forget, forget that night's offence, Forgive it, if, alas! you can; 'T was love, 't was passion — soul and sense — 'Twas all that's best and worst in man. That moment, did th' assembled eyes Of heaven and earth my madness view, I should have seen, through earth and skies, But you alone — but only you. Did not a frown from you repi'ove, Myriads of eyes to me were none ; Enough for me to win your love. And die upon the spot, when won -' A while I fiom the lattice gaz > ["Upon that still and moonlight deep, ■J^ > H \ ^i^Betoie I laid me down to %-^M> With ibles like floating gardens rais d, Y t Foi Aiiel theie his sports to keep; Ih ' <}y While, gliding 'twivt their leafy shore I ^'5. The lone night fisher plied his oars. I felt, — so strongly fancy's power Came o'er me in that witching hour, — As if the whole bright scenery there Were lighted by a Grecian sky. And I then breath'd the blissful air That late had thrill'd to Sappho's sigh. Thus, waking, dreamt I, — and when Sleep Came o'er my sense, the dream went on Nor, through her curtain dim and deep, Hath ever lovelier vision shone. I thought that, all enrapt, I stray'd Through that serene, luxurious shade," Where Epicurus taught the Loves To polish virtue's native brightness, — ) As pearls, we're told, that fondling dove'^ Have play'd with, wear a smoother- ^IJ>\ whiteness/' ^^ yNj^.y 'Twas one of those delicious niglits So common in the climes of Greece, ^i When day withdraws but half its lights, Jv, And all is moonshine, balm, and peace. And thou wert there, my own belov'd. And by thy side I fondly rov'd Through many a temple's reverend gloom. And many a bower's seductive bloom. Where Beauty learn'd what Wisdom taught, ( And sages sigh'd and lovers thought; ,-;C^ Where schoolmen conn'd no maxims stern ^"^ But all was form'd to soothe or move, To make the dullest love to learn. To make the coldest learn to love. And now the fairy pathway seem'd To lead us through enchanted ground, Where all that bard has ever dream'd Of love or luxury bloom'd around. 0, 't was a bright, bewildering scene, Along the alley's deepening green t mk Soft lamps, tliat liung like burning flowcit L L'^ And scented and illum'd the boweis, "" [^ K^Seeni'd, a^ to liiin, who darkling io\( 'Amid the lone Hercynian groves, Ajjpear those countless birds of light, That sparkle m the leaves at night, And fiom their wings diffuse a ray- Along the tia\eller's weary. way/' 'T was light of that mysterious kind, Through which the soul perchance may roam. When it has left this world behind, f'~\ And gone to seek its heavenly home. i^r^ And, Nea, thou wert by my side, ^|-^ Through all this heav'nward path my guide.^ But, lo, as wand'ring thus we rang'd That upward path, the vision chang'd; And now, methought, we stole along Thiough halls of more voluptuous glory Ilim e\ei liv'd in Teian song, Oi wanton'd in Milesian story." And 11} mphs were there, whose very eyes Seem d soften 'd o'er with breath of siahs; S)^: 1^ Whose ev'ry ringlet, as it wreath'cl, .^ A mute appeal to passion breath'd. (§ Some flew, with amber cups, around, Pouring the flowery wines of Crete;'"'' And, as they pass'd with youthful bound, The onyx shone beneath their feet." While others, waving arms of snow Intwin'd by snakes of burnish'd gold," And showing charms, as loath to show, Through many a thin Tarentian fold," Glided among the festal throng Bearing rich urns of flowers along. Where roses lay, in languor breathing. And the young bee grajw," round them wreathint Hung on their blushes warm and meek, Like curls ujwn a rosy cheek. 0, Nea! why did morning break The spell that thus divinely bound me? Why did I wake? how could I wake With thee my own and heaven around : m ( i 'wtW — peace to thy heart, though anotliei''s it be, And health to that cheek, though it bloom not for me ! To-morrow I sail for those cinnamon groves,"" Where nightly the ghost of the Carribee roves, And, far from the light of those eyes, I may yet Their illurements forgive and their splendor forget. w ift (\ Farewell to Bermuda,*' and long may the bloom Of the lemon and myrtle its valleys perfume; May spring to eternity hallow the shade. Where Ariel has warbled and Waller*' has stray'd. And thou — when, at dawn, thou shalt happen to roam Througli the lime-cover'd alley that leads to thy home. Where oft, when the dance and the revel were done, And the stars were beginning to fade in the sun, I have led thee along, and have told by the way What my heart all the night had been burning to say — ■ 0, think of tlie past — give a sigh to those times, And a blessing for me to that alley of limes. ¥'!i ^^ I ^vere yonder wave, my dear, And thou the isle it clasps around, I would not let a foot come near My land of bliss, my fairy giound. If I were yonder couch of gold. And tliou the peail within it plac'd, I would not let an eye behold The sacred gem my arms embrac'd. If I were yonder orange tree, And thou the blossom blooming there, I would not yield a breath of thee To scent the most imjjloring air. 0, bend not o'er the water's brink, Give not the wave that odorous sigl Nor let its burning mirror drink The soft reflection of thine eye. That glossy hair, that glowing cheek, So pictur'd in the waters seem, That I could gladly plunge to seek Thy image in the glassy stream. Blest fate ! at once my cliilly grave And nuptial bed that stream might b I '11 wed thee in its mimic wave. And die upon the shade of thee. :r^^=.^.^^' ^^n;^' 'U / vliljeli My bud lepos'd lii-^ sil\(r pluiiie Upon a rich banana'b bloom ^0 vision bright! spuit fan ' What spell, what magic -lais'd her there "i* 'Twas Nea! slumbenng calm and mild, And bloomy as the dimpled child. Whose spirit in eh '^lum keeps Its playful sabbath, while he sleeps. The broad banana's green embrace Hung shadowy round each tranquil grace ; One little beam alone could win The leaves to let it wander in, And, stealing over all her charms, From lip to cheek, from neck to arms. New lustre to each beauty lent, — Itself all trembling as it went ! Dark lay her eyelid's jetty fringe Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge Mix'd with its shade, like evening's light Just touching on the verge of night. Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid, Seem'd glowing through the ivory lid, And, as I thought, a lustre threw Upon her lip's reflecting dew, — Such as a night lamp, left to shine Alone on some secluded shrine, > !^ '% 'May shed upou the votuu wreath, ' Which pious hands have hung beneath. Was ever vision half so sweet ' Think, think how quick my heait pulse beat As o'er the rustling bank I btole , — 0, ye, that know the lover's soul, It is for you alone to guess, That moment's trembling happiness. gk f ttttlj fwm tilt guttiqut. i nli0ult my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold ; Tis hallow'd by the touch of them Who liv'd in classic hours of old. Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps, Upon her hand this gem display 'd, Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse Should see it grace a lovelier maid. ^--^ ^ AJ Look, dearest, what a sweet design ! /^i^ The more we gaze, it charms the more ; f\/^ , Come — closer bring that cheek to mine, V- \ And trace with me its beauties o'er. V "' Thou see'^t, it it, a fciiu|.lc youtl By some enamour'd nymph embrac'd; 2^ Look, as she leans, and say in sooth Is not that hand most fondly plac'd ? Upon his curled head behind It seems in careless play to lie,^^ Yet presses gently, half inclin'd To bring the truant's lip more nigh. happy maid ! too happy boy ! The one so fond and little loath, The other yielding slow to joy — rare, indeed, but blissful both. Imagine, love, tliat I am he. And just as warm as he is chill Imagine, too, that thou art she. But quite as coy as she is willing: So may we try the graceful way In whieli their gentle arms are twi And thus, like her, my hand I lay Upon thy wreathed locks behind : And thus I feel thee breathing sweet, A^ slow to mine thy head I move ; And thus our lips togetlier meet. And thus,— and thus, — I kiss thee, lov( X i>s_ oTi oTvo^T^v/ievov ev "No longer here shall Justice bound her view, "Or wrong the many, while she rights the few, "But take her range through all the social frame, "Pure and pervading as that vital flame "Which warms at once our best and meanest part. "And thrills a hair while it expands a heart golden dream ! what soul that loves to scan The bright disk rather than the dark of man, fe I That owns the good, while smarting with the ill, loves the world with all its frailty still, — What ardent bosom does not spring to meet The generous hope, with all that heavenly heat, Which makes the soul unwilling to resign The thoughts of growing, even on earth, divine! Yes, dearest friend, I see thee glow to think The chain of ages yet may boast a link Of purer texture than the world has known, And fit to bind us to a Godhead's throne. But, is it thus? doth even the glorious dream Borrow from truth that dim, uncertain gleam. Which tempts us still to give such fancies scope, As shock not reason, while they nourish hope? No, no, believe me, 't is not so — ev'n now, While yet upon Columbia's rising brow The showy smile of young presumption plays. Her bloom is poison'd and her heart decays. Even now, in dawn of life, her sickly breath Burns with the taint of empires near their death; And, like the nymphs of her own withering clime, She's old in youth, she's blasted in her prime.' Already has the child of Gallia's school The foul Philosophy that sins by rule. With all her train of reasoning, damning arts. Begot by brilliant heads on worthless hearts, '4^ 3 that quicken after Nilus' flood, /enom'd birth of sunshine and of mud, — Ah'eady has she pour'd her poison liere O'er every charm that makes existence dear; Ah'eady blighted, with her blackening trace. The opening bloom of every social grace, And all those courtesies, that love to shoot Round virtue's stem, the flow "rets of her fruit. And, were these errors but the wanton tide Of young luxuriance or unchasten'd pride; The fervid follies and the faults of such As wrongly feel, because they feel too much; Then might experience make the fever less. Nay, graft a virtue on each warm excess. But no; 'tis heartless, speculative ill. All youth's transgression with all age's chill; The apathy of wrong, the bosom's ice, A slow and cold staernation into vice. Long has the love of gold, that meanest rage, And latest folly of man's sinking age. Which, rarely venturing in the van of life. While nobler passions wage their heated strife, Comes skulking last, with selfishness and fear. And dies, collecting lumber in the rear, — Long has it palsied every grasping hand And greedy spirit through this bartering land; Turn'd life to traffic, set the demon gold So loose abroad that virtue's self is sold, And conscience, truth, and honesty are made To rise and fall, like other wares of trade." Already in this free, this virtuous state. Which, Frenchmen tell us, was ordain'd by fate, To show the world, what high perfection springs From rabble senators, and merchant kings, — • Even here already patriots learn to steal Their private perquisites from public weal, And, guardians of the country's sacred fire, Like Afric's priests, let out the flame for hire. Those vaunted demagogues, who nobly rose From England's debtors to be England's foes," Who could their monarch in their purse forget, And break allegiance, but to cancel debt," Have prov'd at length, the mineral's tempting hue. Which makes a patriot, can unmake him too.^' 0, Freedom, Freedom, how I hate thy cant! Not Eastern bombast, not the savage rant Of purpled madmen, were they number'd all, From Roman Nero down to Russian Paul, Could grate upon my ear so mean, so base, As the rank jargon of that factious race. Who, poor of heart and prodigal of words, Form'd to be slaves, yet struggling to be lords. '^^i ut forth, as patriots, from their negro marts, And shout for rights, with rapine in their hearts Who can, with patience, for a moment see The medley mass of pride and misery. Of whips and charters, manacles and rights. Of slaving blacks and democratic whites," And all the piebald polity that reigns In free confusion o'er Columbia's plains? To think that man, thou just and gentle God! Should stand before thee with a tyrant's rod O'er creatures like himself, with souls from thee, Yet dare to boast of perfect liberty ; Away, away — I'd rather hold my neck By doubtful tenure from a sultan's heck, In climes, where liberty has scarce been nam'd, Kor any right but that of ruling claim'd, Than thus to live, where bastard Freedom waves Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves; Where — motley laws admitting no degree Betwixt the vilely slav'd and madly free — Alike the bondage and the license suit The brute made ruler and the man made brute. But, while I thus, my friend, in flowerless song. So feebly paint, what yet I feel so strong. ^3-^£^C :v ^ ^k w The ills, the vices of the land, where first N^ Those rebel fiends, that rack the world, were nui-s'd, Where treason's arm by royalty was nerv'd, And Frenchmen learn'd to crush the throne they serv'd — Thou, calmly lull'd in dreams of classic thought, By bards illumin'd and by sages taught, Pant'st to be all, upon this mortal scene. That bard hath fancied or that sage hath been. Why should I wake thee? why severely chase The lovely forms of virtue and of grace, That dwell before thee, like the pictures spread By Spartan matrons round the genial bed, Moulding thy fancy, and with gradual art Brightening the young conceptions of thy heart. Forgive me, Forbes — and should the song desti One generous hope, one throb of social joy, One high pulsation of the zeal for man, Which few can feel, and bless that few who can,; 0, turn to him, beneath whose kindred eyes Thy talents open and thj' virtues rise. Forget where nature has been dark or dim, And proudly study all her lights in him. Yes, yes, in him the erring world forget, And feel that man may reach perfection yet. <:^^ ^ .^ j fl kv, 4^^^^^^^^^^^ ®0 ^homa^ gwuur, ^^q. §X, § AiT^yTjoofzat diT^yTjjiaTa tour; aTZLCTa. i.Ji evening now ; beneath the western star Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar, And fills the ears of some consenting she With puflfs and vows, with smoke and constancy. The patriot, fresh from Freedom's councils come, Now pleas'd retires to lash his slaves at home ; Or woo, perhaps, some black Aspasia's charms. And dream of freedom in his bondmaid's arms/* In fancy now, beneath the twilight gloom. Come, let me lead thee o'er this "second Rome! Where tribunes rule, where dusky Davi bow, And what was Goose Creek once is Tiber now;" This embryo capital, where Fancy sees Squares in morasses, obelisks in trees; AVhich second-sighted seers, ev'n now. adorn With shrines unbuilt and heroes yet unborn. TLouyli naught but woods' and J n they see, Wheie stieetb should lun and sages ouyld to be. And look, how calmly in yon radiant wave. The dying sun prepares his golden grave. mighty river ! ye banks of shade Ye matchless scenes, in nature's morning made, While still, in all th' exuberance of prime, She pour'd her wonders, lavishly sublime. Nor yet had learn'd to stoop, with humbler care. From errand to soft, from wonderful to fair; — Say, were your towering hills, your boundless floods, Your rich savannas and majestic woods. Where bards should meditate and heroes rove. And woman charm, and man deserve her love,— say, was world so bright, but born to grace Its own half-organized, half-minded race" Of weak barbarians, swarming o'er its breast. Like vermin gender'd on the lion's crest? Were none but brutes to call that soil their home, Where none but demigods should dare to roam? Or, worse, thou wondrous world ! 0, doubly worse, Did heaven design thy lordly land to nurse The motley dregs of every distant clime, Each blast of anarchy and taint of crime Wliicli Europe shakes from her perturbed sphere, In full malignity to rankle here? But hold, — observe yon little mount of pines. Where the breeze murmurs and the firefly shines. There let thy fancy raise, in bold relief, The sculptur'd image of that veteran chief" Who lost the rebel's in the hero's name, And climb'd o'er prostrate loyalty to fame; Beneath whose sword Columbia's patriot train Cast off their monarch, that their mob might reign. How shall we rank thee upon glory's page? Thou more than soldier and jusfless than sage! Of peace too fond to act the conqueror's part. Too long in camps to learn a statesman's art, Nature design'd thee for a hero's mould, But, ere she cast thee, let the stuff grow cold. While loftier souls command, nay, make their fate. Thy fate made thee and forc'd thee to be great; Yet Foitune, who so oft, so blindly sheds Hei biightest halo lound the weakest heads, Found thee undazzled, tranquil as before, Proud to be useful, scorning to be more; Less mov'd by glory's than by duty's claim, Renown the meed, but self-applause the aim; All that thou wert reflects less fame on thee, Far less, than all thou didst forbear to be. Nor yet the patriot of one land alone, — For, thine 's a name all nations claim their own ; And every shore, where breath 'd the good and brave Echo'd the plaudits thy own country gave. Now look, my friend, where faint the moonlight falls On yonder dome, and, in those princely halls, — If thou canst hate, as sure that soul must hate, Which loves the virtuous, and reveres the great, If thou canst loathe and execrate with me The poisonous drug of French 2:)hilosophy, That nauseous slaver of these frantic times, With which false liberty dilutes her crimes, — • If thou hast got, within thy free-born breast. One pulse that beats more proudly than the rest m With honest scoi-n for that inglorious soul, Which creeps and winds beneath a mob's control, Which courts the rabble's smile, the rabble's nod, And makes, like Egvpt, every beast its god, There, in those walls — but, burning tongue, forbear! Rank must be reverenc'd, even the rank that's there: So here I pause — and now. dear Hume, we part: But oft again, in frank exchange of heart. Thus let us meet, and mingle converse dear, By Thames at home, or by Potowmac here. O'er lake and marsh, through fevers and through fogs 'Midst bears and yankees, democrats and frogs, Tliy foot shall follow me, thy heart and eyes With me shall wonder, and with me despise. °* While T, as oft, in fancy's dream shall rove, With thee conversing, through that land I love, Where, like the air that fans her fields of green, Her freedom spreads, unfever'd and serene; And sovereign man can condescend to see The throne and laws more sovereign still than he. Nor long did the soul of the stranger remain Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to meet; ^^N^ Though scarce did he hope it would soothe him again, ^ Till the threshold of home had been press'd by his feet. But the lays of his boyhood had stol'n to their ear, And they lov'd what they knew of so humble a name; And they told him, with flattery welcome and dear. That they found in his heart something better than fame. Nor did woman — woman ! whose form and whose soul Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue; Whether sunn'd in the tropics or chill'd at the pole, If woman be there, there is happiness too : — Nor did she her enamouring magic deny, — That magic his heart had relinquish'd so long, — Like eyes he had lov'd was her eloquent eye. Like them did it soften and weep at his song. 0, blest be the tear, and in memory oft May its sparkle be slied o'er the wanderer's dream ; Thrice blest be that eye, and may passion as soft, As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam ! The stranger is gone — but he will not forget, When at home he shall talk of the toils he has known, To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met. As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuylkill alone. Gia era in loco ove s' uj Deir acqiia . ^IWtt rise of morn till set of sun I've seen the mighty Mohawk run; And as I mark'd the woods of pine Along his mirror darkly shine, Like tall and gloomy forms that pass Before the wizard's midnight glass ; And as I view'd the hurrying pace With which he ran his turbid race, Rushing, alike untir'd and wild, Through shades that frownVl and flowers that smil n Flying by every green recess That woo'd him to its calm caress, Yet sometimes turning with the wind As if to leave one look behind, — Oft have I thought, and thinking sigh'd, How like to thee, thou restless tide, May be the lot, the life of him Who roams along thy water's brim; Through what alternate wastes of woe And flowers of joy my path may go; How many a sbelter'd, calm retreat May woo the while my weary feet, While still pursuing, still unblest, I wander on nor dai-e to rest; But, urgent as the doom that calls Thy water to its destiu'd falls, I feel the world's bewildering force Hurry my heart's devoted course From lapse to lapse, till life be done, And the spent current cease to run. One only prayer I dare to inake, As onward thus my course I take; — O, be my falls as bright as thine! May heaven's relenting rainbow shine Upon the mist that circles me, As soft as now it hano-s o'er thee! ^s= ^ 'AV^- m ^ y ^0ng 0f tHc €rU ^\mi ci tltc aiV00a,s , difBcilis, qunque est via nulla. Ovid. Metam. lib. iii. v. 'J2' ^OW the vapor, hot and damp, Shed by day's expiring lamp. Through the misty ether spreads Every ill the white man dreads ; Fiery fever's thirsty thrill, Fitful ague's shivering chill ! Hark ! I hear the traveller's song, As he winds the woods along; Christian, 'tis the song of fear; Wolves are round thee, night is near. And the wild thou dar'st to roam — Think, 't was once the Indian's home ! ' Hither, sprites, who love to harm, Wheresoe'er you work your charm. By the creeks, or by the brakes. Where the pale witch feeds her snakes. n k" >\v^ And the caymau" loves to creep, Torpid, to his wintry sleep : Where the bird of carrion flits, And the shuddering murderer sits,' Lone beneath a roof of blood ; While upon his poison'd food. From the corpse of him he slew Drops the chill and gory dew. t4 m Hither bend ye, turn ye hither, Eyes that blast and wings that wither ! Cross the wandering Christian's way. Lead him, ere the glimpse of day. Many a mile of madd'ning error Through the maze of night and terror. Till the morn behold him lying On the, damp earth, pale and dying. Mock him, when his eager sight Seeks the cordial cottage light ; Gleam then, like the lightning bug, Tempt him to the den that's dug For the foul and famish'd brood Of the she wolf, gaunt for blood ; Or, unto the dangerous pass O'er the deep and dark morass, ^^m^^^ ^ .^^ ^^ Where the trembling Indian bring: Belts of porcelain, pipes, and rings, Tributes to be hung in air, To the Fiend presiding ther m Then, when night's long labor past, Wilder'd faint, he falls at last, Sinking where the causeway's edge Moulders in the slimy sedge. There let every noxious thing Trail its filth and fix its sting; Let the bull toad taint him over, Round him let musquitoes hover. In his ears and eyeballs tingling. With his blood their poison mingling, Till, beneath the solar fires, Rankling all, the wretch expires! 5fh0U oft hast told me of the happy hours ilnjoy'd by thee in fair Italia's bowers, ngering yet, the ghost of ancient wit 'IMidst modern moidcs profanely dares to flit, And pagan spirits, by the pope unkiid. Haunt every stream and sing through every shade; Tliere still the bard who (if his numbers be Ills tongue's light echo) must have talk'd like thee, The -courtly bard, from wliom thv mind has caught Those playful, sunshine holy days of thought, C^g^^^ M In which the spirit baskingly reclines, Bright without effort, resting while it shines. There still he roves, and laughing loves to How modern priests with ancient rakes agree; How, 'neath the cowl, the festal garland shines, And Love still finds a niche in Christian shrines. There still, too, roam those other souls of song, With whom thy spirit hath commun'd- so long, That, quick as light, their rarest gems of thought, By Memory's magic to thy lip are brought. But here, alas ! by Erie's stormy lake. As, far from such bright haunts my course I take, No proud remembrance o'er the fancy plays. No classic dream, no star of otlier days ^Hath left that visionary light behind, ^ering radiance of immortal mind. Which gilds and hallows even the rudest scene. The humblest shed, where Genius once has been ^^Hathlef Y ^Thatlinj All that creation's varying mass assumes Of grand or lovely, here aspires and blooms. Bold rise the mountains, rich the gardens glow. Bright lakes expand, and conquering" rivers flow But mind, immortal mind, without whose ray. This world 's a wilderness and man but cla3'. """^^sU^Ju^^f"'^ ' Mind, mind alone, in barren, still repose. Nor blooms, nor rises, nor expands, nor flows. Take Cliristians, Mohawks, democrats, and all From the rude wigwam to the congress hall, From man the savage, whether slav'd or free. To man the civiliz'd, less tame than he, — 'T is one dull chaos, one unfertile strife Betwixt half-polish'd and half-barbarous life; Where eVery ill the ancient world could brew la mix'd with every grossness of the new; Wliere all corrupts, though little can entice, And naught is known of luxury, but its vice! V^ Is this the region then, is this the clime For soaring fancies? for those dreams sublime, ^ Which all their miracles of light reveal 'io heads that meditate and hearts that feel? Alab ! not so — the Muse of Nature lights ^ Hei glories round ; she scales the mountain heights. And loaras the forests; every wondrous spot Burns with her step, yet man regards it not. She whispers round, her words are in the air. But lost, unheard, they linger freezing there," 0^ Without one breath of soul, divinely strong, One lay of mind to thaw them into song. LU^ 3^^a^^ Of soft refinement round the pomp of arms, <5^And see her poets flash the fires of song, I A/ To light her warriors' thunderbolts along;— ^ It is to you, to souls that favoring heaven Has made like yours, the glorious task is given! / 0, but for such, Columbia's days were done; Rank without ripeness, quicken'd without sun. Crude at the surface, rotten at the core. Her fruits would fall, before her spring were o'er. Believe me, Spencer, while I wing'd the hours Where Schuylkill winds his way through banks c flowers. Though few the days, the happy evenings few, So warm with heart, so rich with mind they flew, That my charm'd soul forgot its wish to roam And rested there, as in a dream of home. And looks I met, like looks I'd lov'd before. And voices too, which, as they trembled o'er The chord of memory, found full many a tone Of kindness there in concord with their own. r cr W ^^-^C& 1 That flow of heart, whicli I have known with thee Bo oft, so warmly ; nights of mirth and mind. Of whims that taught, and folHes that refin'd. When shall we both renew them? when, restor'd To the gay feast and intellectual board. Shall I once more enjoy with thee and thine Those whims that teach, those follies that refine? Even now, as, wandering upon Erie's shore, I hear Niagara's distant cataract roar, I sigh for home, — alas! these weary feet Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet. a HATPIS, 'aZ 20T KAPTA NTN MNEIAN EXfl. ? r # I :^3g^^. P df Uttf IC by the smoke that so gracefully curl'd Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I- said, "It there's peace to be found in the worl "A heart that was humble might hoj^e for it here!' It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd around In silence repos'd the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree. And, "Here in this lone little wood," I exclaim'd, ' "With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I prais'd her, and weep if I blam'd, 'How blest could I live, and how calm could I die! ' T>y the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recWue.jffJ';^ " And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips |/ "Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!" 9,± ^lliutUl as tolls the evening cliime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn " ^J^^l ^-^, -^fflg t.'^ — ^*^i^^^§- Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, Tlie Rapids are near and the daylight's past. Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But, when the wind blows off the shore, O, sweetly we '11 rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. The Rapids are near and the daylight's past. Utawas' tide : this trembling moon Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. Saint -of this green isle! hear our prayers, O, grant us cool heavens and flavoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near and the daylight 's past. ^^^^m:^:^^:::::;^^^^ u Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores, Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours, And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze, Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries; — Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves. Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves, And hears the v«pirit voice of sire, or chief, Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf." There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung My own unpolish'd lays, how proud I 've hung On every tuneful accent ! proud to feel That notes like mine should have the fate to steal, As o'er thy hallowing lip they sigh'd along, Such breath of passion and such soul of song. Yes, — I have wondered, like some peasant boy Who sings, on Sabbath eve, his strains of joy, And when he hears the wild, untutor'd note Back to his ear on softening echoes float, Believes it still some answering spirit's tone, And thinks it all too sweet to be his own ! "TW ^ I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year Had fill'd its circle, I should wander here In musing awe ; sliould tread this wondrous world, See all its store of inland waters hurl'd In one vast volume down Niagara's steep, Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep, Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed; Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide Down the white rapids of his lordly tid Through massy woods, 'mid islets flowering fair And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair For consolation might have weeping trod, When banish'd from the garden of their God. 0, Lady ! these are miracles, which man,' Cag'd in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span. Can scarcely dream of,— which his eye must see To know how wonderful this world can be But lo,— the last tints of the west decline. And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine. Among the reeds, in which our idle boat Is rock'd to rest, the wind's complaining note I)ies like a half-breath'd whispering of flutes ; Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots, And I can trace him, like a wateiy star," Down the steep current, till he fades afar Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light, Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night. Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray. And the smooth glass snake," gliding o'er my way. Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm, Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze Some Indian Spirit warble words like these: — From the land beyond the sea, Whither happy spirits flee; Where, transform'd to sacred doves. Many a blessed Indian roves Through the air on wing, as white As those wondrous stones of light," ^-ffe. m Which the eye of morning counts On the Apallachian mounts, — Hither oft my flight I take Over Huron's lucid lake, Where the wave, as clear as dew, Sleeps beneath the light canoe, Which, reflected, floating there. Looks as if it hung in air." Then, when I have stray 'd a while Through the Manataulin isle,'' Breathing all its holy bloom. Swift I mount me on the plume Of my Wakon Bird," and fly Where, beneath a burning sky, O'er the bed of Erie's lake Slumbers many a water snake, Wrapp'd within the web of leaves, Which the water lily weaves,'^ Next I chas'd the flow'ret king Through his rosy realm of spring; See him now, while diamond hues Soft his neck and wino;s suffuse, it*.. V .-K'jiiiiE;::^::rpJ%. f#-^ Wy, 'C^\ ^ In the leafy chalice sink, Thirsting for his balmy drink; Now behold him all on fire, Lovely in his looks of ire. Breaking every infant stem. Scattering every velvet gem. Where his little tyrant lip Has not found enough to sip. Then my playful hand I steep Where the gold thread" loves to creep, Cull from thence a tangled wreath, Words of magic round it breathe, And the sunny chaplet spread O'er the sleeping flybird's head,'* Till, with dreams of honey blest, Haunted, in his downy nest. By tlie garden's fairest spells. Dewy buds and fragrant bells. Fancy all his soul embowers In the flybird's heaven of flowers. W Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes Melt along the ruffled lakes, When the gray moose shed his horns. When the track, at evening, warns Weary hunters of the way To the wigwam's cheering ray, Then, aloft, through freezing air, With the snow bird" soft and fair As the fleece that heaven flings O'er his little pearly wings, Light above the rocks I play, Where Niagara's starry spray. Frozen on the cliff, appears Like a giant's starting tears. There, amid the island sedge, Just upon the cataract's edge, Where the foot of living man Never trod since time began, Lone I sit, at close of day. While, beneath the golden ray, Icy columns gleam below, Feather'd round with falling snow, '41) Sparkling as the chain of rings Round the necks of virgins hung, — Virgins," who have wander'd young O'er the waters of the west To the land where spirits rest! Thus have I charm 'd, with visionary lay, The lonely moments of the niglit away ; And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams! Once more, erabark'd upon the glittering streams Oui boat flies light along the leafy shore, hhooting the falls, without a dip of oar Oi breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark, Boine, without sails, along the dusky flood," Whde on its deck a pilot angel stood, And, with his wings of living light unfurl'd, Coasted the dim shores of another world ! m w Yet, 0, believe me, 'mid this mingled maze Of nature's beauties, where the fancy strays . From charm to charm, where every flow'ret'i 'O hue Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,- I never feel a joy so pure and still. So inly felt, as when some brook or hill, Or veteran oak, like those remember'd well, Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell, (For, who can say by what small fairy ties The mem'ry clings to pleasure as it flies?) Reminds my heart of many a sylvan dream I once indulg'd by Trent's inspiring stream ; Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights. Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore. With him, the polish'd warrior, by thy side, A sister's idol and a nation's pride! When thou hast read of heroes, trophied In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye Turn to the living hero, while it read. For pure and brightening comments on the dead ; :^i ■S2Jt«ES:^b:;;j%i>. ^1 "W^ _^0r whether memory to my mind lecalls \ '*1 The festal grandeur of those lordly halls, When guests have met around the sparkling board, And welcome warm'd the cuj? that luxury pour'd ; When the bright future Star of England's throne With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone, Winning respect, nor claiming what he won. But tempering greatness, like an evening sun Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire, Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire; Whatever hue my recollections take. Even tlie regret, the very jjain they wake Is mix'd with happiness; — but, ah! no more — Lady ! adieu — my heart has linger'd o'er Those vanish'd times, till all that round me lies, Streams, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes ! ^ C .^^^>?t "^ gmpvomptu ® VC(X^ but for a moment — and yet in tliat time She crowded th' impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime, Which wak'd every feeling at once into flower. 0, could we have borrow'd from Time but a day, To renew such impressions again and again. The things we should look and imagine and say Would be worth all the life we had wasted till then. What we had not the leisure or language to speak, We should find some more spiritual mode of re- vealing. And, between us, should feel just as much in a week As others would take a millennium in feeling. i IN THE GULF OF ST. LAWRENXE, ^tt you, beneath yon cloud so dark, Fast gliding along a gloomy hark? Her sails are full, — though the wind is still, And there blows not a breath her sails to fill ' ■^ ff=^"= ^^^^ Say, what doth that vessel of darkness bear? The silent calm of the grave is there, Save now and again a death kneill rung, And the flap of the sails with night fog hungr There lieth a wreck on the dismal shore - Of cold and pitiless Labrador; Wliere, under the moon, upon mounts of frost Full many a mariner's bones are toss'd. Yon shadowy bark hath been to that wreck. And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck, Doth play on as pale and livid a crew As ever yet drank the churchyard dew. To Deadman's Isle, in the eye of the blast, To Deadman's Isle, she speeds her fast; By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd. And the hand that steers is not of this world ! 0, hurry thee on — 0, hurry thee on. Thou terrible bark, ere the night be gone, Nor let morning look on so foul a sight As would blanche forever her rosy light ! ^. w Ill 1 14^ "With triumph this morning, Boston I I h iil \'_ ^ Tlie stir of thy deck. and tlie spread of thy sail, 413 I^f Foi the} tell ine I soon shall be wafted, thee, To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free, And that chill Nova Scotia's unpromising strand ' Is the last I shall tread of American land. Well — peace to the land ! may her sons know, at length. That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength. That though man be as free as the fetterless wind As the wantonest air that the north can unbind ■ Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the ' blast, If no harvest of mhid ever sprung where it pass'd, Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might, — Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight! Farewell to the few I have left witli regret May they sometimes recall, what I cannot forget The delight of those evenings, — too brief delight! converse and song we have stol on the nio-ht; ^/fcT ,^f %{ il ^hen they've asked me the mannei^, the mind, or the mien, Of some bard I had known, or some chief I had seen, Whose glory, though distant, they long had ador'd, Whose name had oft hallow'd the wine cup they pour'd. And still as, Avith sympathy humble but true, (\\^^ I have told of each bright son of fame all I "^-^^ /// ' knew, ""^ iV /^f?%s They have listen'd, and sigh'd that the powcrfu' stream Of America's empire, should pass, like a dream, Without leaving one relic of genius, to say How sublime was the tide which had vanish'd away ! Farewell to the few — though we never may meet T On this planet again, it is soothing and .f) . '""'^ WiJO S^=— \ To think that, wdienever my song and my ^ ''■'''' name ~^|7| Shall recur to their ear, they '11 recall me the same I have been to them now, young, unthought- ■^/M ful, and West, ^ ^^ Ere hope liad deceived nie or sorrow depress'd. But, Douglas! while tluis I recall to my mind The elect of the land we shall soon leave behind ^ , , , , I can read in the weather-wise glance of thine e} e j/ilV \ \\\ ix^ As it follows the rack flitting over the sky, | y^h ^m '^^^^^ ^^® ^^^"*' coming breeze will be fair for our (\\J (1 J " '' flight, And shall steal us away, ere the falling of night - I,/ ^|X Dear Doudas! thou knowest, with thee by my VJIVS'^ side. /lli N ^^^- With thy friendship to sooth me, thy courage to I |W ^jil M^ guide, ^1^/ There is not a bleak isle in those summerless seas, 'ipt^ Where the day comes in darkness, or shines but to W/ freeze, ?i|1JF^ Not a tract of the line, not a barbarous shore, :? Q'iW "^'''^^ ^ '^^"''^ "''^ ^^''*'' patience, with pleas- ^^ i^VMi \ are explore ! * i ' ^ i , \ think then how gladly I follow thee — ;^ now, " ^ When Hope smoothes the billowy path of our l^row, ill/ "^"^ ^ And each pio^ppiou-^ sigh ot the ing wind .Takes me nearer the home whe enshr Where the smile of a father shall / And the tears of a mother turn bl ''' ' ^ Where the kind voice of sisters si 1 heart, I ' And ask it, in sighs, how we ever ^'L '^'^r^iii/' But see! — the bent topsails are ready to '[y,i 1^ \ swell — Jm Ij^^— To the boat — I am with thee — Columbia, fare- ''dlM well ! APPENDIX, NOTES MOOKE'S MELODIES AMERICAIT POEMS. NOTES TO THE MELODIES. Note 1, page 35. (hie chord from that harp, or one loch Jri.m that hair. "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was made respecting the liabits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on thcii- upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by (ine of our bards, in wliich an Irisk virgin is made to give the prefer- ence to her dear Coulin (or the youth_ with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, and is universally ad- mired " — Walker's JTisforical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us, also, that about the same period there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels. Note 2, page 36. TEMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE. Brien Borombe, the great Monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having de- feated the Danes in twenty-five engagements. Note 3, page 36. Tho' lost to MONONIA a7id cold in the grave. IRISH MELODIES. Note 4, page 36. lie returns to KiNKORA 710 t The palace of Brien. Note 5, page 38. Ejrgd not our wounded companions, who stood. This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Cloiitarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that tliey might be allowed to fight with the rest. — "Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the giound, and suffer each 0/ tts, 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'Hal- laran), pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops; — never was such another sight exhib- ited."— -ffis/ory 0/ Ireland,, Book XII. Chap. i. Note 6, page 39. In times of old through AmmON's shade. Solis Fons, near the Temple of Amnion. Note 7, page 44. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. "The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow; and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807. NOTES. Note 8, page 44. As that vale in whose bosom the bright wafers meet. The rivers Avon and Avoca. Note 9, page 47. EICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote: — "The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jew- els and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and such an impression had the laws and government of this monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels."— Warner's Bistort/ of Ireland, Vol. I. Book x. Note 10, page 49. We 're fallen upon gloomy days. I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the 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 aids of talent and integrity. Note 11, page 50. Thou, of the Hundred Fights/ This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the IRISH MELODIES. bard of O'Niel, 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 ! " Note 12, page 50. Trulh, peace, and freedom hung! Fox, "Komanorum ultimus." Note 13, page 53. Wliere teeary trai-cUers 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. Note 14, page 57. ST. SENANUS. In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kil- kenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernkc, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express pur- pose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer: — Cui PrcBSul, quid fceminis Commune est cum monacliia? Nee te nee ullam aliam Admittemus in insulam. See the Acta Sanct. IIib. p. 610. According to Dr. Ledwicht, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon ; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny the meta- morphose indignantly. Note 15, page 66. When Malachi wore the collar of gold. " This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ire- land in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to luuul, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory."— Waenee's HMorij of Irclaml, Vol. I. Book is. Note 16, page 66. Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger. "Military ordeis of knights were very early established in Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Caraidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red- Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red- Branch ; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrow- ful Soldier." — O'Hallokan's Introduction, &c., Part I. Chap. v. Note 17, page 66. For the long faded glories they cover. It was an old tradition, in the time of Geraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers IRISH MELODIES. the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquce illius turres tcclesiasticM, qua more patrice arctm sunt et altw, necnon et rotunda;, sub undia manifeste sereno tempore eonspiciunt, et extraneis transeimtibvs, reique causas admirantibus, frequenter oslendunt. — TOPOGK. HiB., Dist. ii. c. 9. Note 18, page 67. THE SONG OF FIONNDALA. To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, trans- formed into a swan, and condemned to wander for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. —I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira. Note 19, page 71. Like the bright lamp, that shone in KildAEE's holy fane. The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions, " Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctse Brigidfe, quem inex- tinguibilem vooant ; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solioite moniales et sanctte mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutri- unt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inex- tinctus." — Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibem., Dist. ii. c. 34. Note 20, page 72. And daylight and liberty bless the young flower. Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important object. Note 21, page 73. OHl BLAME NOT THE BARD. We m