IRISH MELODIES
AND
SACRED   SONGS.












Alaska,"




IRISH:MELODIES
AND
SACRED SONGS.
BY
THOMAS MOORE.
PROM THE LAST EDITION OF HIS COLLECTED WORKS.
NEW YORK:
OAKLEY, MASON AND CO.,
21 MURRAY STREET.
1 8 6 9.








P RE FAC E.
(Originally prefixed to the Melodies in the colleoted
edition of Moore's Works.)
THE recollections connected in my mind with that
early period of my life, when I first thought of interpreting in verse the touching language of my
country's music, tempt me again to advert to those
long past days; and even at the risk of being
thought to indulge overmuch in what Colley Cibber calls " the great pleasure of writing about one's
self all day," to notice briefly some of those impressions and influences. under which the attempt
to adapt words to our ancient Melodies was for some
time meditated by me, and, at last, undertaken.
There can be no doubt that to the zeal and industry of Mr. Bunting his country is indebted for
the preservation of her old national airs. During
the prevalence of the Penal Code, the music of Ireland was made to share in the fate of its people.
Both were alike shut out from the pale of civilized
life; and seldom any where but in the huts of the
proscribed race could the sweet voice of the songs
A2




X                  PREFACE.
of other days be heard. Even of that class, the itinerant harpers, amnong whom for a long period
our ancient music had been kept alive, there remained but few to continue the precious tradition;
and a great music-meeting held at Belfast in the
year 1792, at which the two or three still remaining of the old race of wandering harpers assisted,
exhibited the last public effort made by the lovers
of Irish music to preserve to their country the only
grace or ornament left to her, out of the wreck of all
her liberties and hopes.  Thus what the fierce legislature of the Pale had endeavored vainly thro'
so many centuries to effect, —the utter extinction of
Ireland's Minstrelsy, —the deadly pressure of the
Penal Laws had nearly, at the close of the eighteenth century, accomplished; and, but for the zeal
and intelligent research of Mr. Bunting, at that crisis, the greater part of our musical treasures would
probably have been lost to the world. It was in
the year 1796 that this gentleman published his
first volume; and the national spirit and hope,
then wakened in Ireland by the rapid spread of
the democratic principle throughout Europe, could
not but insure a most cordial reception for such a
work;-flattering as it was to the fond dreams of
Erin's early days, and containing in itself, indeed,
remarkable testimony to the truth of her claims to
an early date of civilization.
It was in the year 1797 that, through the medium of Mr. Bunting's book, I was first made acquainted with the beauties of ofr native music.




PREFACE.                Xi
A young friend of our family, Edward Hudson,
the nephew of an eminent dentist of that name,
who played with much taste and feeling on the
flute, and unluckily for himself, was but too deeply warmed with the patriotic ardour then kindling
around him, was the first who made known to me
this rich mine of our country's melodies:-a mine,
from the working of which my humble labours as
a poet have since derived their sole lustre and value. About the same period I formed an acquaintance, which soon grew into intimacy, with young
Robert Emmet. He was my senior, I think, by
one class, in the university; for when, in the first
year of my course, I became a member of the Debating Society,-a sort of nursery to the authorised
Historical Society-I found him in full reputation,
not only for his learning and eloquence, but also
for the blamelessness of. his life, and the grave
suavity of his manners.
Of the political tone of this minor school of oratory, which was held weekly at the rooms of different resident members, some notion may be formed from the nature of the questions proposed for
discussion,-one of which, I recollect, was, "Whether an Aristocracy or a Democracy is most favourable to the advancement of science and literature?" while another, bearing even more pointedly on the relative position of the government and
the people, at this crisis, was thus significantly
propounded: — " Whether a soldier was bound, on
all occasions, to obey the orders of his command



xii                PREFACE.
ing officer?" On the former of these questions,
the effect of Emnmet's eloquence upon his young
auditors was, I recollect, most striking.  The prohibition against touching upon modern politics,
which it was subsequently found necessary to enforce, had not yet been introduced; and Emmet,
who took of course ardently the side of democracy
in the debate, after a brief review of the republics
of antiquity, showing how much they had all done
for the advancement of science and the arts, proceeded lastly to the grand and perilous example,
then passing before all eyes, the young Republic of
France.  Referring to the circumstance told of
Caesar, that, in swimming across the Rubicon, he
contrived to carry with him his Commentaries and
his sword, the young orator said, " Thus France
wades through a sea of storm and blood; but
while, in one hand, she wields the sword against
her aggressors, with the other she upholds the glories of science and literature, unsullied by the ensanguined tide through which she struggles." In
another of his remarkable speeches, I remember
his saying, "' When a people advancing rapidly in
knowledge and power perceive at last how far
their government is lagging behind themn, what
then, I ask, is to be done in such a case? What,
but to pull the government up to the people?"
In a few months after, both Emmet and myself
were admitted members of the greater and recog.
nised institution, called the Historical Society; and,
even here. the political feeling so rife abroad con



PREFACE.               Xiii
trived to mix up its restless spirit with all our debates and proceedings; notwithstanding the constant watchfulness of the college authorities, as
well as of a strong party within the Society itself,
devoted adherents to the policy of the government,
and taking invariably part with the Provost and
Fellows in all their restrictive and inquisitorial
measures. The most distinguished and eloquent
of these supporters of power were a young man
named Sargent, of whose fate in after days I know
nothing, and Jebb, the late bishop of Limerick, who
was then, as he continued to be through life, much
respected for his private worth and learning.
Of the popular side, in the Society, the chief
champion and ornament was Robert Emmet; and
though every care was taken to exclude from the
subjects of debate all questions verging towards
the politics of the day, it was always easy enough,
by a side-wind of digression or allusion, to bring
Ireland and the prospects then opening upon her
within the scope of the orator's view. So exciting
and powerfill, in this respect, were Emmet's
speeches, and so little were even the most eloquent
of the adverse party able to cope with his powers,
that it was at length thought advisable, by the
higher authorities, to send among us a man of
more advanced standing, as well as belonging to a
former race of renowned speakers, in that Society,
in order that he might answer the speeches of Emmet, and endeavour to obviate the mischievous
impression they were thought to produce. The




xiv               PREFACE.
name of this mature champion of the higher powers it is not necessary here to record; but the object of his mission among us was in some respect
gained; as it was in replying to a long oration ot
his, one night, that Emmet, much to the mortification of us who gloried in him as our leader, became suddenly embarrassed in the middle of his
speech, and, to use the parliamentary phrase, broke
down. Whether from a momentary confusion in
the thread of his argument, or possibly from diffidence in encountering an adversary so much his
senior,-for Emmet was as modest as he was highminded and brave,-he began, in the full career
of his eloquence, to hesitate and repeat his words,
and then, after an effort or two to recover himself, sate down.
It fell to my own lot to be engaged, about the
same time, in a brisk struggle with the dominant
party in the Society, in consequence of a burlesque
poem which I gave in, as a candidate for the
Literary Medal, entitled'An Ode upon Nothing,
with notes, by Trismegistus Rustifustius,D.D.' &c.
For this squib against the great Dons of learning,
the medal was voted to me by a triumphant majority. But a motion was made in the following week
to rescind this vote; and a fierce contest between
the two parties ensued, which I at last put an end
to by voluntarily withdrawing my composition
from the Society's Book.
I have already adverted to the period when Mr.
Bunting's valuable volume first became known to




PREFACE.                 XV
me. There elapsed no very long time before I
was myself the happy proprietor of a copy of the
work, and, though never regularly instructed in
music, could play over the airs with tolerable facility on the pianoforte.  Robert Emmet used
sometimes to sit by me, when I was thus engaged; and I remember one day his starting up as
from a reverie, when I had just finished playing
that spirited tune called the Red Fox,* and exclaiming, "-Oh that I were at the head of twenty
thousand men, marching to that air!"
How little did I then think that, in one of the
most touching of the sweet airs I used to play
to him, his own dying words would find an interpreter so worthy of their sad, but proud feeling;t
or that another of those mournful strains t would
long be associated, in the hearts of his countrymen, with the memory of her II who shared with
Ireland his last blessing and prayer.
Though fully alive, of course, to the feelings
which such music could not but inspire, I had not
yet undertaken the task of adapting words to any
of-the airs; and it was, I am ashamed to say, in.dull and turgid prose, that I made my first appearance in print as a champion of the popular.cause. Towards the latter end of the year 1797,
the celebrated newspaper called " The Press" was
set up by Arthur O'Connor, Thomas Addis Emmet,
* "Let Erin remember the days of old."
t "Oh, breathe not his name."
$ "She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps."
ft Miss Curran.




XV1                PREFACE.
and other chiefs bf the United Irish conspiracy,
with the view of preparing and ripening the pub.
lie mind for the great crisis then fast approaching.
This memorable journal, according to the impression I at present retain of it, was far more distinguished for earnestness of purpose and intrepidity,
than for any great display of literary talent;-the
bold letters written by Emmet (the elder), under
the signature of "Montanus,"' being the only compositions I can now call to mind, as entitled to
praise for their literary merit. It required, however, but a small sprinkling of talent to make bold
writing, at that time, palatable; and, from the experience of my own home, I can answer for the
avidity with which every line of this daring
journal was devoured. It used to come out, I
think, twice a week, and, on the evening of publication, I always read it aloud to our small circle
after supper.                               1~,
It may easily be conceived that, what with my
ardour for the national cause, and a growing consciousness of some little turn for authorship, I was
naturally eager to become a contributor to those
patriotic and popular columns. But the constant
anxiety about me which I knew my own family
felt, -a feeling more wakeful far than even their
zeal in the public cause - withheld me from hazarding any step that might cause them alarm. I
had ventured, indeed, one evening, to pop privately into the letter-box of The Press, a short Fragment in imitation of Ossian. But this, though in



PREFACE.                 XVii
serted, passed off quietly; and nobody was, in
any sense of the phrase, the wiser for it. I was
soon tempted, however, to try a more daring flight.
Without communicating my secret to any one but
Edward Hudson, I addressed a long Letter in prose
to the * * * * * of *. * *, in which a profusion
of bad flowers of rhetoric was enwreathed plentifilly with that weed which Shakspeare calls " the
cockle of rebellion," and, in the same manner as
before, committed it tremblingly to the chances of
the letter-box. I hardly expected my prose would
be honoured with insertion, when, lo, on the next
evening of publication, when, seated as usual in
my little corner by the fire, I unfolded the paper
for the purpose of reading it to my select auditory,
there was my own Letter staring me full in the
face, being honoured with so conspicuous a place
as to be one of the first articles my audience
would expect to hear. Assuming an outward appearance of ease, while every nerve within me
was trembling, I contrived to accomplish the reading of the Letter without raising in either of my
auditors a suspicion that it was my own. I enjoyed the pleasure too of hearing it a good deal praised by them; and might have been tempted by
this to ackno3wledge myself the author, had I not
found that the language and sentiments of the article were considered by both to be " very bold."*
* So thought also higher authorities; for, among the extracts from
The Press brought forward by the Secret Committee of the House of
Commons, to show how formidable had been the designs of the United




Xviil                   PREFACE.
I was not destined, however, to remain long undetected. On the following day, Edward Hudson,t the only one, as I have said, entrusted with
my secret, called to pay us a morning visit, and
had not been long in the room, conversing with
my mother, when looking significantly  at me he
said,'Well, you saw -'   Here he stopped; but
the mother's eye had followed his, with the rapidity of lightning, to mine, and at once she perceived
the whole truth.  " That Letter was yours, then?"
she asked of me eagerly; and, without hesitation,
of course, I acknowledged the fact; when in the
most earnest manner she entreated of me never again to have any connexion with that paper; and,
as every wish of hers was to me a law, I readily
pledged the solemn promise she required. Though
well aware how easily a sneer may be raised at
the simple details of this domestic scene, I have
yet ventured to put it on record, as affording an
instance of the gentle and womanly watchfulness,
-the providence, as it may be called, of the little
world of home,-by which, although placed alIrishmen, there are two or three paragraphs cited from this redoubtable
Letter.
t Of the depth and extent to which Hudson had involved himself in
the conspiracy, none of our family had harboured the least notion: till,
on the seizure of the thirteen Leinster delegates, at Oliver Bond's, in
the month of March, 1798, we found, to our astonishment and sorrow,
that he was one of the number.
To those unread in the painful history of this period, it is right to
mention that almost all the leaders of the United Irish conspiracy were
Protestants. Among those companions of my own alluded to in these
pages, I scarcely remember a single Catholic.




PREFACE.               XiX
most in the very current of so headlong a movement, and living familiarly with some of the most
daring of those who propelled it, I yet was guarded from any participation in their secret oaths,
counsels, or plans, and thus escaped all share in
that wild struggle to which so many far better
men than myself fell victims.
In the mean while, this great conspiracy was
hastening on, with fearful precipitancy, to its outbreak; and vague and shapeless as are now known
to have been the views even of those who were
engaged practically in the plot, it is not any wonder that to the young and uninitiated like myself
it should have opened prospects partaking far
more of the wild dreams of poesy than of the plain
and honest prose of real life. But a crisis was
then fast approaching, when such self-delusions
could no longer be indulged; and when the mystery which had hitherto hung over the plans of
the conspirators was to be rent asunder by the
stern hand of power.
Of the horrors that fore-ran and followed the
frightful explosion of the year 1798, I have neither
inclination nor, luckily, occasion to speak. But
among those introductory scenes, which had somewhat prepared the public mind for such a catastrophe, there was one, of a painfill description,
which, as having been myself an actor in it, I
may be allowed briefly to notice.
It was not many weeks, I think, before this
crisis, that, owing to information gained by the




XX                      PREFACE.
college authorities of the rapid spread, among the
students, not only of the principles but the organisation of the Irish Union,* a solemn visitation was
held by Lord Clare, the vice-chancellor of the
University, with the view of inquiring into the
extent of this branch of the plot, and dealing summarily with those engaged in it.
Imperious and harsh as then seemed the policy
of thus setting up a sort of inquisitorial tribunal,
armed with the power of examining witnesses on
oath, and in a place devoted to the instruction of
youth, I cannot but confess that the facts which
came out in the course of the evidence, went far
towards justifying even this arbitrary proceeding;
and to the many who, like myself, were acquainted only with the general views of theUnion leaders, without even knowing, except from conjeature,
who those leaders were, or what their plans or objects, it was most startling to hear the disclosures
which every succeeding witness brought forth.
There were a few, —and among that number,
poor Robert Emmet, John Brown, and the two
*  ** * ** s, whose  total absence  from   the
* In the Report from the Secret Committee of the Irish House of
Lords, this extension of the plot to the College is noticed as a " desperate project of the same faction to corrupt the youth of the country by
introducing their organised system of treason into the University."
$ One of these brothers had been long a general in the French army;
having taken a part in all those great enterprises of Napoleon which
have now become mater of history. Should these pages meet the eye of
Gen. * * ** *, they will call to his mind the days we passed together
in Normandy, a few summers since;-more especially our excursion tc
Bayeux, when, as we talked on the wa, of old college times and friends




PREFACE.               XXi
whole scene, as well as the dead silence that, day
after day, followed the calling out of their names,
proclaimed how deep had been their share in the
unlawful proceedings inquired into by this tribunal.
But there xwas one young friend of mine,
lt+*+*+, whose appearance among the suspected
and examined as much surprised as it deeply and
painfully interested me.  He and Emmet had
long been intimate and attached friends; —their
congenial fondness for mathematical studies having been, I think, a far more binding sympathy
between them than any arising out of their political opinions. From his being called up, however,
on this day, when, as it appeared afterwards, all
the most important evidence was brought forward,
there could be little doubt that, in addition to his
intimacy with Emmet, the college authorities must
have possessed some information which led them
to suspect him of being an accomplice in the conspiracy. In the course of his examination, some
questions were put to him which he refused to answer, -most probably from their tendency to involve or inculpate others; and he was accordingly dismissed, with the melancholy certainty that
his future prospects in life were blasted; it being
already known that the punishment for such contumacy was not merely expulsion from the University, but exclusion from all the learned professions.
all the eventful and stormy scenes we had passed through since seemed forgotten.
B2




Xxii               PREFACE.
The proceedings, indeed of this whole day had
been such as to send me to my home in the evening with no very agreeable feelings or prospects.
I had heard evidence given affecting even the lives
of some of those friends whom I had long regarded
with admiration as well as affection; and what
was still worse than even their danger,-a danger
ennobled, I thought, by the cause in which they
suffered, —was the shameful spectacle exhibited
by those who had appeared in evidence against
them. Of these witnesses, the greater number had
been themselves involved in the plot, and now
came forward either as voluntary informers, or
else were driven by the fear of the consequences
of refusal to secure their own safety at the expense
of companions and friends.
I well remember the gloom, so unusual, that
hung over our family circle on that evening, as,
talking together of the events of the day, we discussed the likelihood of my being among those
who would be called up for examination on the
morrow. The deliberate conclusion, to which my
dear honest advisers came, was that, overwhelming as the consequences were to all their plans and
hopes for me, yet, if the questions leading to criminate others, which had been put to almost all examined on that day, and which poor   * ** x x 
alone had refused to answer, I must, in the same
manner, and at all risks, return a similar refusal.
I am not quite certain whether I received any intimation, on the following morning, that I was to




PREFACE.               XXiI
be one of those examined in the course of the day;
but I rather think some such notice had been conveyed to me; -and, at last, my awful turn came,
and I stood in presence of the formidable tribunal.
There sate, with severe look, the vice-chancellor,
and, by his side, the memorable Doctor Duigenan,
— memorable for his eternal pamphlets against
the Catholics.
The oath was proffered to me. "I have an objection, my Lord," said I,' to taking this oath."
", What is your objection'." he asked sternly.  "I
have no fears, my Lord, that any thing I might
say would criminate myself; but it might tend to
involve others, and I despise the character of the
person who could be led, under any such circumstances, to inform.against his associates."  This
was aimed at some of the revelations of the preceding day; and, as I learned afterwards, was so
understood.  "How old are you, Sir?" he then
asked.  "Between seventeen and eighteen, my
Lord." He then turned to his assessor, Duigenan,
and exchanged a few words with him, in an under
tone of voice. "We cannot," he resumed, again
addressing me, "suffer any one to remain in our
University, who refuses to take this oath."  "I
shall, then, my Lord," I replied, " take the oath,
-still reserving to myself the power of refusing to
answer any such questions as I have just described."  "We do not sit here to argue with you,
Sir," he rejoined sharply; upon which I took the
oath, and seated myself in the witnesses' chair.




Xxiv                        PREFACE.
The following are the questions and answers
that then ensued. After adverting to the proved
existence of United Irish Societies in the University, lie asked, " Have you ever belonged to any of
these societies?" " No, my Lord." "' Have you
ever known- of any of the  proceedings that took
place in  them  "7   "No, my  Lord."   "Did  you
ever hear of a proposal at any of their meetings,
for  the  purchase  of  arms' and  ammunition 3"
"Never, my  Lord."    "Did  you  ever hear of a
proposition made, in one of these societies, with
respect to the expediency of assassination'"   " Oh
no, my Lord." He then turned again to Duigenan, and, after a few words with himn, said to me:
-"'When such are the answers you are able to
give-, pray what was the cause of your great repugnance to taking the oath 3 " " I have already
told your Lordship my chief reason; in addition
to which, it was the first oath I ever took, and the
hesitation was, I think, natural."t
* There had been two questions put to all those examined on the
first day,-" Were you ever asked to join any of these societies? "and " By whom were you asked? " — which I should have refused to
answer, and must, of course, have abided the consequences.
t For the correctness of the above report of this short examination,
1 can pretty confidently answer. It may amuse, therefore, my readers,
-as showing the manner in which biographers make the most of small
facts,-to see an extract or two from another account of this affair, published not many years since by an old and zealous friend of our family.
After stating with tolerable correctness one or two of my answers, the
writer thus proceeds:-" Upon this, Lord Clare repeated the question,
and young Moore made such an appeal, as caused his lordship to relax,
austere and rigid as he was. The words I cannot exactly remember;
the substance was as follows:- that he entered college! to receive the




PREFACE.                     XXV
I was now dismissed without any further questioning; and, however trying had been this short
operation, was amply repaid for it by the kind
zeal with which my young friends and companions
flocked to congratulate me;-not so much, I was
inclined to hope, on my acquittal by the court, as
on the manner in which I had acquitted myself.
Of my reception, on returning home, after the fears
entertained of so very different a result, I will not
attempt any description; - it was all that such a
home alone could furnish.
I have been induced thus to continue down to
the very verge of the warning outbreak of 1798,
the slight sketch of my early days which I ventured to commence in the First Volume of this Collection: nor could I have furnished the Irish Melodies with any more pregnant illustration, as it
was in those times, and among the events then
stirring, that the feeling which afterwards found a
voice in my country's music, was born and nurtured.
I shall now  string  together such detached  notices and memoranda respecting this work, as I
think may be likely to interest my readers.
education of a scholar and a gentleman; that he knew not how to compromise these characters by informing against his college companions;
that his own speeches in the debating society had been ill construed,
when the worst that could be said of them was, if truth had been spoken, that they were patriotic... that he was aware of the high-minded
nobleman he had the honour of appealing to, and if his lordship could
condescend to step from his high station and place himself in his situation, then say how he would act under such circumstances,-it would
be his guidance."-HnaRBER''s   Irish Varieties. London, 1836.




xxvi             PREFACE.
Of the few songs written with a concealed political feeling,-such as " When he who adores thee,'
and one or two more,-the most successful, in its
day, was "'When first I met thee warm  and
young," which alluded, in its hidden sense, to the
Prince Regent's desertion of his political friends.
It was little less, I own, than profanation to disturb the sentiment of so beautiful an air by any
connexion with such a subject. The great success of this song, soon after I wrote it, among a
large party staying at Chatsworth, is thus alluded
to in one of Lord Byron's letters to me:-" I have
heard from London that you have left Chatsworth
and all there filll of'entusymusy'...... and,
in particular, that'When first I met thee' has
been quite overwhelming in its effect. I told you
it was one of the best things you ever wrote,
though that dog i t x  wanted you to omit part
of it."
It has been sometimes supposed that "Oh
breathe not his name," was meant to allude to
Lord Edward Fitzgerald: but this is a mistake;
the song having been suggested by the well-known
passage in Robert Emmet's dying speech, "Let
no man write my epitaph...... let my tomb
remain uninscribed, till other times and other men
shall learn to do justice to my memory."
The feeble attempt to commemorate the glory
of our great Duke —" When History's Muse," &c.
— is in so far remarkable, that it made up amply
for its want of poetical spirit, by an outpouring,




PREFACE.                        Xxvii
rarely granted to bards in these days, of the spirit
of prophecy. It was in the year 1815 that the
following lines first made their appearance:And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
The grandest, the purest, even THOU hast yet known;
Though 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, &c.
About fourteen years after these lines were written, the Duke of Wellington recommended to the
throne the great measure of Catholic Emancipation.
The fancy of the "Origin of the Irish Harp"
was (as I have elsewhere acknowledgedt*) suggested by a drawing, made under peculiarly painful
circumstances, by the friend so often mentioned in
this sketch, Edward  Hudson.
In connexion with another of these matchless
airs,-one that defies all poetry to do  it justice,I find the following  singular  and  touching  statement in an article of the Quarterly Review.
Speaking of a young and promising poetess, Lu* C" When, in consequence of the compact entered into between government and the chief leaders of the conspiracy, the State Prisoners,
before proceeding into exile, were allowed to see their friends, I paid a
visit to Edward Hudson, in the jail of Kilmainham, where he had then
lain immured for four or five months, hearing of friend after friend being led out to death, and expecting every week his own turn to come.
I found that to amuse his solitude he had made a large drawing with
charcoal on the wall of his prison, representing that fancied origin of
the Irish Harp which, some years after, I adopted as the subject of
one of the'Melodies.' "- Life and Death of Lord Edward Fitzgerald,
vol. i.




Xxviii              PREFACE.
cretia Davidson, who died very early from nervous excitement, the Reviewer says, " She was
particularly sensitive to music. There was one
song (it was Moore's Farewell to his Harp) to
which she took a special fancy. She wished to
hear it only at twilight,-thus (with that same
perilous love of excitement which made her place
the AEolian harp in the window  when she was
composing), seeking to increase the effect which
the song produced upon a nervous system, already
diseasedly susceptible; for it is said that, whenever she heard this song, she became cold, pale,
and almost fainting; yet it was her favourite of
all songs, and gave occasion to those verses addressed in her fifteenth year to her sister."
With the Melody entitled, " Love, Valour, and
Wit," an incident is connected, which awakened
feelings in me of proud, but sad pleasure, to think
that my songs had reached the hearts of some of
the descendants of those great Irish families, who
found themselves forced, in the dark days of persecution, to seek in other lands a refuge from the
shame and ruin of their own;-those, whose story
I have thus associated with one of their country's
most characteristic airs:
Ye Blakes and O'Donnells, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which at home they had sigh'd for in vain.
From a foreign lady, of this ancient extraction,
-whose names, could I venture to mention them,
would lend to the incident an additional' Irish




PREFACE.               xxix
charm, —I received about two years since, through
the hands of a gentleman to whom it had been
entrusted, a large portfolio, adorned inside with a
beautiful drawing, representing Love, Wit, and
Valour, as described in the song. In the border
that surrounds the drawing are introduced the
favourite emblems of Erin, the harp, the shamrock, the mitred head of St. Patrick, together with
scrolls containing each, inscribed in letters of gold,
the name of some favourite melody of the fair
artist.
This present was accompanied by the following
letter from the lady herself; and her Irish race, I
fear, is but too discernible in the generous indiscretion with which, in this instance, she allows
praise so much to outstrip desert —
" Le 25 Aouit, 1836.
" Monsieur,
"Si les poites n'etoient en quelque sorte
une propriet6 intellectuelle dont chacun prend sa
part a raison de la puissance qu'ils exercent, je ne
saurois en verite comment faire pour justifier mon
courage!-car il en falloit beaucoup pour avoir
ose consacrer mon pauvre talent d'amateur a vos
delicieuses poesies, et plus encore pour en renvoyer le pale reflet'a son veritable auteur.
" J'espere toutefois que ma sympathie pour 1'Irlande vous fera juger ma foible production avec
cette heureuse partialit6 qui impose silence a la
critique: car, si je n'appartiens pas a'Ile Verte
C




XXX                 PREFACE.
par ma naissance, ni mes relations, je puis dire
que je m'y interesse avec un cceur Irlandais, et
que j'ai conserve plus que le nom de mes peres.
Cela seul me fait esperer que mes petits voyageurs
ne subiront pas le triste noviciat des 6trangers.
Puissent-ils remplir leur mission sur le sol natal,
en agissant conjointement et toujours pour la cause
Irlandaise, et amener enfin une 6re nouvelle pour
cette heroique et malheureuse nation:-le moyen
de vaincre de tels adversaires s'ils ne font qu'un.
"' Vous dirai-je, Monsieur, les doux moments que
je dois a vos ouvrages? ce seroit rep6ter une fois
de plus ce que vous entendez tous les jours et de
tours les coins de la terre. Aussi j'ai garde de
vous ravir un tems trop precieux par l'echo de ces
vieilles v6erites.
" Si jamais mon etoile me conduit en Irlande, je
ne m'y croirai pas etrangere. Je sais que le passe
y laisse de longs souvenirs, et que la conformit6
des d6sirs et des esperances rapproche en d6pit de
l'espace et du tenms.
" Jusque-la, recevez, je vous prie, l'assurance
de ma parfaite consideration, avec laquelle j'ai
l'honneur d'etre,
"Monsieur,
"Votre tres-humble servante,
" LA COMTESSE * *: * * "
Of the translations that have appeared of the
Melodies in different languages, I shall here mention such as have come to my knowledge.




PREFACE.             XXX1
Latin. —" Cantus Hibernici," Nicholas Lee Torre, London, 1835.
ltalian.-G. Flechia, Torino, 1836.-Adele Custi, Milano, 1S36.
French. —Madame Belloc, Paris, 1823. —Loeve
Veimars, Paris, 1829.
Russian.-Several. detached Melodies, by the
popular Russian poet Kozlof.
Polish.-Selections, in the same manner, by Niemcewich, Kosmian, and others.
I have now exhausted not so much my own recollections, as the patience, I fear, of my readers
on this subject. We are told of painters calling
those last touches of the pencil which they give to
some favourite picture the'"ultima basia;" and
with the same sort of affectionate feeling do I now
take leave of the Irish Melodies, —the only work
of my pen, as I very sincerely believe, whose fame
(thanks to the sweet music in which it is embalmed) may boast a chance of prolonging its existence
to a day much beyond our own.








DEDICATION
TO
THE  MARCHIONESS  OF  HEAIFORT.
IT is with a pleasure, not unmixed with melancholy, that I dedicate the last Number of the Irish Melodies 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 beautiful 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!
I am not without hope that, as far as regards the grace and
spirit of the 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 Supplement consist, have been selected from
the immense mass of Irish music which has been for years past
accumulating 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 the Tenth Number have been
added.
Trusting that I may yet again, in remembrance of old times,
hear our voices together in some of the harmonised airs of this
Volume, I have the honour to subscribe myself,
Your Ladyship's faithful Friend and Servant,
THOMAS MooRE,
Sloperton Cottage,
JMay, 1834.








IRISH MELODIES,








IRISH MELODIES,
GO WCHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.
GO where glory waits tnee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh still remember me!
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh then remember me!
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh then remember me!
When, at eve, thou rovest,
By the star thou lovest,
Oh then remember me!
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning
Oh thus remember me!




IRISH MELODIES.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its lingering roses,
Once so lov'd by theeThink of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh then remember me!
When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh then remember me!
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh still remember me!
Then should music;, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,
Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I used to sing thee,Oh then remember me!




IRISH MELODIES.                    3
WAR SONG.
REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE,
EMEM BER  the glories of Brien the brave,*
Though the days of the hero are o'er;
Though lost to Mononia,t and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkorat no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam  on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory vet.
Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
* Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland; who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.
t Munster              * The palace of Brien.




4                  IRISH  MELODIES
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood*
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their
blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light
Saw them fall upon Ossory's p~ain;Oh, let him not blush when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain!
ERIN, THE TEAR AND THE SMiILE.
ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that bangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam
Weep while they  rise.
* This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dab
gais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in
their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of
Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed
to fight with the rest. "Let stakes be stuck in the ground," said
they, "and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these
stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.""' Between seven and eight hundred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, "pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared
mixed with the foremost of the troops; never was such another
sight exhibited."            Hist. Ireland, bk. xii. chap. 1.




IRISH MELODIES.
Eri.n! thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in heaven's sight
One arch of peace!
O BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!
FOH breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhon.or'd his relics are lan:
Sad, silent, and dark,'be'the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, tho' in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE.
W   HEN he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
v)




6              IRISH MELODIES.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.
THE HARP THAT ONCE THRO' TARA'S HALLS.
THE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's chill is o'er;
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright,
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.




IRISH MELODIES.               7
FLY NOT YET.
FLY not yet,'tis just the hour'When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
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 were made;'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh stay!- Oh stay! --
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that 0!'tis pain
To break its links so soon.
Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near.
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle, till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh stay! -Oh stay!When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?
*Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.




8             IRISH MELODIES.
O0 THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS
LIGHT.
OiH! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang, as they seem to you now
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-nighs
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.
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 touched 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 can gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwin'd;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
When these blessings shall cease to bI dear to my
mind.
But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
Too dften 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 deceiv'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.




IRISH  MELODIES.                      9
THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN.
THO' the 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 fly 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 wvill tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.*
* "In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an
act was made respecting the habits 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 their upper lip, called Crommneal.
On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which
an Irish virgin is made to give the preference 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 admired.
Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards.
Mr. Walker informs us also, that about the same period, there
were some harsh measures taken against the Irish minstrels.
D2




10                IRISH  MELODITES.
RICH AND RARE NWERE THE GEMS.
PICH  and rare were the gems she wore,*
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.
"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray
" So lone and lovely through this bleak way?
" Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
" As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"
" Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
"No son of Erin will offer me harm:"For, though th'ey love woman and golden store,
aSir Knight! they love honor and virtue more."
On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle;
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride.
* This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote.-" The
people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, 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 jewels 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 honor, nor was she robbed of
her clothes or jewels." Warner's Hist. Ireland, vol i. book x.




IRISH MELODIES.                 11
AS A BEAM  O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS.
S a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,
VVhile 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 shades alike 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 stingO! 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.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.*
T HERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters
meet; t
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
* (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.
t The rivers Avon and Avoca.




12             IRISH MELODIES.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;'Twhas not her soTt magic of strear'tet 6or hill,
0h no! —it was something more exquisite still.'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were
near,
Who made each 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.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world
should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.*
ST. SENANUS.
"(H! haste and leave this sacred isle,
Unholy bark! ere morning smile,
For on thy deck, though dark it be,
A female form I see;
And I have sworn this sainted sod
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod."
* In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old
Rilkenny MS. and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hibernime,'we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his




IRISH  MELODIES.                     13
THE LADY.
"Oh Father! send not hence my bark,
Through wintry winds and billows dark;
I come with humble heart to share
Thy morn and evening prayer;
Nor mine the feet, 0 holy saint!
The brightness of thy sod to taint."
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd,
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd;
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delay'd,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle
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 purpose of introducing her to him.
The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according
to his poetical biographer:
Cui Proesul, quid fceminis
Commune est cum monachis?
Nec te nec ullam aliam
Admittemus in insulam.
See the'Acta Sanct. Hib.' p. 610.
According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage
than the river Shannon, obut O'Connor and other antiquarians deny
the metamorphose indignantly.




14           IRISH MELODIES.
HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.
HOW dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea!
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave toward the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.
TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.
WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.
TAKE back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still;
Some hand more calm and sage
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come as pure as light,
Pure as even you require;
But oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book:
Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you.
Like you'tis fair and bright;
Like you too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.




IRISH MELODIES.             15
Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Towards you and home;
Fancy may trace some line
Worthy 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 through what storms I strayYou still the unseen light
Guiding my way.
THE LEGACY.
WA HEN in death I shall calm recline,
0 bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it liv'd upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,
To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.




16             IRISH MELODIES.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hang it up at that friendly door
Where weary travellers love to call.*
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest;
Never, O never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.
HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.
HOW  oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth!
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth!
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave!
* "In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers,
who were the more caressed the more they excelled m music."O'HALLORAN.




IRISH  MIELODIES.                      17
We're fallen upon gloomy days! *
Star after star decays,
Every bright name that shed
Light o'er the land is fled.
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth:
But brightly flows the tear
Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quench'd are our beacon lights -
Thou of the Hundred Fights! t
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and fireedom hung!:
Both mute, - but long as valor shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they liv'd and died.
1 have endeavored 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.
t 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 bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the "Philosoph
ical Survey of the South of Ireland," page 433. "Con of the Hun
dred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not oua
defeats with thy victories!i"
t Fox, "Romanorum ultimus."
It




18            IRISH MELODIES.
WE MAY ROAM THRO' THIS WORLD.
W E may roam through this world, like a child
at a feast,
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest
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 feel, 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,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
O remember the smile that adorns her at home.
In England the garden of beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery placed within call;
But: so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the garden' s but carelessly watch'd after all.
O they want the wild sweet-briery fence,
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells
Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,
Nor charms us least when it most repels.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round
0 remember the smile that adorns her at home.




IRISH MELODIES.              19
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 bids her good-bye!
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy
Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,
Through billows of woe, and beams of joy,
The same as he look'd when he left the shore.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Through this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
O remember the smile that adorns her at home.
EVELEEN'S BOWER.
O  WEEP for the hour
When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came!
The moon hid her light
From the heavens that night,
And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
The clouds pass'd soon
From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day
When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame,




20               IRISH  MELODIES.
The white snow lay
On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley cross'd over tne moor;
And many a deep print
On the white snow's tint
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door,
The next sun's ray
Soon melted away
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
But there's a light above,
Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.
LET ERIN REMEMBER.
LET  Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betrayed her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold,*
Which he won from her proud invader.
When her kings, with standard of green unfurled,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger; -t
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.
* " This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the monarch of Ireland in the loth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered snccessively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of
one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his
victory.-WARNER's Hist. Ireland, vol. i. bk. 9.
t " Military orders of knights were very early established in




IRISH  MELODIES.                      21
On Lough Neagh's bank, as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining;
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time,
For the long-faded glories they cover. *
Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we find au hereditary or
der of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe 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 Bron-bhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier."-O'HALLoRAN's Introduction, part i. chap. v.
* It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, 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 the tall ecclesiastical towers under water.' Piscatores aquae illius turres ecclesiasticas, que
more patrike arctee sunt et altos, necnon et rotundse, sub undis manifeste, sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis, transeluntibus, rei.
que causas admirantibus frequenter ostendunt.'-Topo. Hib. Dist.
E2




22                IRISH  MELODIES.
THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.*
sILENT, 0 Moyle! be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale.of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep with wings in darkness furled?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, 0 Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm  our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?
* To make this story intelligible in a song, would require a
much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to in
flict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be con
tent to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was
by some supernatural power transformed 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.




IRISH MELODIES,               23
COME SEND ROUND THE WINE.
COME, send round the wine, and leave points of
belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the
schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But while they're fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall 1 ask the brave soldier who fights by my side
In'the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of. my soul should I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!
SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.
SUBLIME was the warning that Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards
awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
O Liberty! let not this spirit have rest
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west;
E




24            IRISH MELODIES.
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor 0, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot,
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain.
If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same.
And 0 may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to
find
That repose which, at home, they had sighed for
in vain,
Join, join in our hope, that the flame which you light
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright,
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause!-0, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain.
Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!




IRISH MELODIES.              25
BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING.
BELIEVE  me, if all those endearing young
charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet i1 l my arms,
Like fairy gifts, fading away;
Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will;
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear.
No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close!
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,'The same look which she turn'd when he rose




26                  IRISHI  MIELODIES.
ERIN, OHi  ERIN.
fIiKE  the  bright lamp that shone inKildare's holy
fil  e,:
And burn'd tdlro' long' ages of darkness and stormn,
Is the heart that sorrows hlave Irown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them  unfading and warm.
Erin, 0 Erin, thus bright through the tears
Of a longo iig-lht of b)ondage thy spirit appears!
The nations thave fallen and  thou still art young,
Thy suti  is but rising, when others are set;
And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of fireedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, O Erin, though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwalk'd by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.t
Erin, O  Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that liv'd thro' it shall blossom at last.
* The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions, " Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanetie Brigidw
quem inextinguDilbilell vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed
quod tam solicite moniales et sancete mulieres ignem, suppetente
materia, foveunt t rnutriunt, ult a temnpore virginis per tot animorum
curricutlaob::,,!,,lsiit illeXtilntuS."-GIRALD. Cam. de Mlirabil.'i ll'ms. 11.'l'alle, il lier exquisite lines on the lily, ihas applied
tlis iliage to a still Inore important object.




IRISH MELODIES.             27
DRINK TO HER.
DRINK to her who long
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 hands 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 buy.
At Beauty's door of glass,
When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They ask'd her "which might pass?"
She answer'd, " he who could."
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.




28                IRISH  MELODIES.
But 0, the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Though woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her who lonog
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
0 BLAME NOT THE BARD.*
OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
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,t
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.
But alas for his country! - her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
* We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of
those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and perhaps
truly, describes in his' State of Ireland,' and whose poems, he tells
us,'were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which
it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice,
which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue.'
t It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from YR, the Runic for a Bow, in the use of which weapon
the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more
creditable to us than the following: " So that Ireland (called the
land of IRE, for the constant broils therein for 400 years) was now
become the land of concord.- -LLoYD's State Worthies.




IRISH MELODIES.               29
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unpriz'd are her sons till they've learn'd to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their
sires,
And the torch that wou..d light them through digni.
ty's way
Must 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;
O give but a hope! - let a vista but gleam
Through 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,
While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his
sword.*
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, lov'd 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!
* See the hymn attributed to Alcmus, Ev,v~rov.x}adL to
}ttpoS p0oQcaw —' I will carry my sword hidden in myrtles
like Harmodius and Aristogiton,' &c
F




30               IRISH MELODIES.
WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.
WHILE 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 unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone,
That bless my home and guide my way.
The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meek,
Illumin'd all the pale flowers,
Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.
I said (while
The moon's smile
* "Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the
single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the
others, is much more beneficial than they all put together."WHISTON'S Theory, &c.
En the'Entretiens d'Ariste,' among other ingenious emblems:
we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words' Non mille,
quod absens.'




IRISH MELODIES.                  31
Pltiy'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss),
"The moon looks
"On many brooks,
" The brook can see no moon but this." *
And thus I thought our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While O, I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.
ILL OMENS.
IWHEN 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 treasur'd her heart and her
soul in
Had promis'd to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er
misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses, t
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.
* This image was suggested by the following thought, which
occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: "The moon
looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one
moon."
t An emblem of the soul.




32             IRISH MELODIES.
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."
While she stole through the garden where heart'sease was growing,
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew;
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too.
But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Her zone flew in two, and the heart's-ease was lost;
"Ah! this means," said the girl, (and she sigh'd at
its meaning,)
" That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost."
BEFORE THE BATTLE.
BY the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife,
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life -
Oh! remember, life can be
No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave
Sinks a hero in his grave,'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.




IRISH MELODIES.                 33
Happy is he o'er whose decline
The- smiles of home may soothing shine,
And light him down the steep of years;But 0, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tam'd his tyrant might!
Never let him bind again
A chain like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls
Ere the golden evening falls
May we pledge that horn in triumph round.*
Many a heart that now beats high,
in slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken ev'n at victory's sound:But 0, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!
AFTER THE BATTLE.
NIGHT clos'd around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still!
* "The Irish coma was not entirely devoted to martial purposes.
In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed meadh out of them, as the
Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.-WALKEaR.
F2




3 4               IRISH  MELODIES.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd -
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honor's lost?
The last. sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valor's task, mov'd slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise, and give them light to die.
There's yet a world where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?'TIS SWEET TO THINK.'TIS  sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
WVe are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.*
* I believe it is Marmontel who says,' uand on n'a pas ce que
l'on aime, ii faut aimer ce que l'on a.'-There are so many matterof-fact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes
them, that they compel one in self-defence to be as matter-of-fact
ss themselves, and to remind them that Democritus was not the
worsephysiologist, for having playfully contended that snow was
black; nor Erasmus in any degree the less wise for having Written aningenious.encomium.on folly.




IRISH MELODIES.                35
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own,
Then.O 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.'Twere a shame, when flowers" around us, rise,
To make light of the rest, if the.rose is n't there;
And the world so rich in resplendent eyes,'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the.peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue!
Then O 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.
THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.*
THROUGH  grief and through danger thy smile
hath cheer'd my way,
Till hope' seem to bud from  each thorn that round
me lay;
* Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.




36              IRISH MELODIES.
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love
burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd.
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd ev'n the sorrows that made me more
dear to thee.
Thy rival was honor'd, while thou wert wrong'd and
scorn'd,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in
caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas, were
slaves;
Yet cold in the earth at thy feet I wpuld rather be,
Than wed what I love not, or turn one thought from
thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail;
Hadst thou been a false one thy cheek had look'd
less pale!
They say too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains
0, foul is the slander! - no chain could that soul
subdue -
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too.*
* " Where the spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."-ST PAUL.
2 Cor. iii. 17.




IRISH MELODIES.              37
ON MUSIC.
WHEN through life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we us'd to love
In days of boyhood meet our ear,
O how welcome breathes the strain
Wakening thoughts that long have slept,
Kindling former smiles again
In faded eyes that long have wept.
Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours;
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.
Music! 0 how faihnt, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are ev'n more false than they;
Oh'tis only Music's strain
Can sweetly soothe and not betray.




38            IRISH MELODILS.
IT IS NOT THE TEAR.
IT  is not the tear at this moment shed,*
When the cold turf has just been lair. o'er him,
That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.'Tis the tear through many a long day wept,'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;'Tis the one remembrance fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs are faded.
Thus his memory, like some holy light,
Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them;
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them!
And as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweetening bloom
From the image he left there in dying!
THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.
-TIS believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for
thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea,
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she lov'd.
* These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and
dear relative, who died at Madeira.




IRISH MELODIES.              39
But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till Heaven look'd with pity on true love so warm,
And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair - still her cheeks smil'd
the same -
While her sea-beauties gracefully formed the light
frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was chang'd to bright chords uttering melody's spell.
Hence it came that this soft Harp so long hath been
known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when
away.
LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.
OH! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Wras love, still love!
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,




40             IRISH MELODIES.
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.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
Though he win the wise, who frown'd before;
To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one lov'd name!
No,- that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love trac'd;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.'Twas odor fled
As soon as shed;'Twas morning's winged dream'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh!'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.




IRISH MELODIES.                  4.
THE PRINCE'S DAY.*
THO' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through 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 ceased to pain,
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,
There comes a new link
Our spirits to sink -
0, 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.
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* This song was written for a fete in honor of the Prince of
Wales' birth day, given by my friend, Major Bryan, last year (1810)
at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.
G




42            IRISH MELODIES.
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 suffered 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,And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's a 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.
WEEP ON, WEEP ON.
WEEP 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 hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain,Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights'again!




IRISH MELODIES.             43
Weep on - perhaps in after days
They'll 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 aisle
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?
"'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."
LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.
LESBIA hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises.
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,




44            IRISH MELODIES.
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But love in yours, my Nora Creina!
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath laced it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature placed it,
O, my Nora's gown for me,
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 round us,
Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart
In safer slumber Love reposes -
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh, my Nora Creina dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina,
Wit, though bright,
Hath no such light
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.




IRISH MELODIES.                 45
I SAW  THY FORM.
I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleet not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,
And that which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary!
If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary! 
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary! *
* I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's — " Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis
versari quam tui meminisse! "
G2




46               IRISH  MELODIES.
BY THAT LAKE.*
BY  that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Skylark never warbles o'er, t
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 cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last'
Dreams of Heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
]ut 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.
* This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of
St Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a
most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.
t There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake,
which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.




IRISH MELODIES.              47
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And, when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late),
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, " Heaven rest her soul I "
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
SHE is far from the land where her young hero.sleeps,
And lovers are round her.sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note, which he lov'd, awaking;Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!




48            IRISH MELODIES.
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the
West,
From her own lov'd island of sorrow.
NAY, TELL ME NOT.
NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam
Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,
The balm of thy sighs,
Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine caln steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.




IRISH  MELODIES.                    49
They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds,
That drank of the floods
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide
Of ruby had dy'd
All blush into beauty, like thee, sweet maid,!
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee!
AVENGING AND BRIGHT.*
AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin
On him  who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her
blade.
* The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient
Irish story called' Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of
Usnach,' which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by
Mr O'Flanagan, (see vol. 1 of the Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the' Darthula' of
Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Connor, king of Ulster,
in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction
of Eman. " This story," says Mr O'Flanagan, "has been from




50                IRISH  MELODIES.
By the red cloud that hung over Connor's dark dwelling,*
When + Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in
gore -
By the billows of war, which, so often high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shoreWe swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall lie wasted,
Tillivengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head!
Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections,
Tho' sweet are the tears that from  tenderness fall;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our
affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!
time immemorial held in high repute, as' one of the three tragic
stories of the Irish. These are,' The death of the children of
Touran;'' The death of the children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Danans); and this,' The death of the children of Usnach,'
which is a Milesian story."' It will be recollected that, in another
part of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the chiidren of Lear or Lir;'Silent, 0 Moyle.'
Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity,
which Mr O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of
Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality,
if the Gaelic researches of these gentlemen did not meet with all
the liberal encouragement they merit.
* "0 Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see
over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."-DEans.DRI's
Song.
t Ulster.




IRISH MELODIES.              51
WHAT THE BEE IS.
He. —WHAT the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey dew,
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.
She. —What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.
She.- But, they say, the bee's a rover,
Who will fly when sweets are gone,
And when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.
He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,'Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may.
LOVE AND THE NOVICE.
HERE we dwell in holiest bowers,
" Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;
"Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
"To Heaven in mingled odor ascend.
" Do not disturb our calm, O Love!
"So like is thy form to the cherubs above,
" It well might deceive such hearts as ours."




52             IRISH MELODIES.
Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.
"' Who would have thought," the urchin cries,
"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
"His wandering wings, and wounding eyes? "
Love now warms thee, waking or sleeping,
Young Novice! to him all thy orisons rise;
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,
And angels themselves would admit such a guest,
If he came to them cloth'd in Piety's vest.
THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D.
THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep;
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting 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




IRISH MELODIES.,53
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Thro' fields full of light, with heart full of play,
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 fallen on the leaves
From her fountain divine,'tis sufficient for me.
OH THE SHAMROCK.
THROUGH Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valor wander'd,
With Wit the sprite,
Whose quiver bright,
A thousand arrows squander'd;
WVhere'er they pass,
A triple grass t
Shoots up with dew-drops streaming,
*   Proposito florem prmtulit officio.
PROPERT. lib. i. eieg. 20.
t St Patrick is said to have made use of that species of the trofoil, to which it. Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in exI'U




54               IRISH  MELODIES.
As softly green
As emeralds seen
Through purest crystal gleaming.
O the Shamrock! the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
Says Valor, " See,
They spring for me,
Those leafy gems of morning! "
Says Love, "No, no,
For me they grow,
My fragrant path adorning."
But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,
And cries, " 0 do not sever
A type that blends
Three godlike friends,
Love, Valor, Wit, for ever!"
O the Shamrock! the green, immortal Shamrock 
Chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
plaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish I do not
know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as
a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes
represented as a beautiful child, standing on tiptoes, and a trefoil
or three-colored grass in her hand.




IRISH MELODIES.              55
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 Valor ne'er
His standard rear
Against the cause of Freedom!
O the Shamrock! the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of bard and chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.
AT the mid hour of night, 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 Ine, our love is remember'd even in the sky!




56              TRISH MELODIES.
Then I sing the wild song,'twas once such pleasure
to hear,
When our voices commingling, breath'd like one on
the ear;
And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
rolls,
I think, O my love!'tis thy voice from the kingdom
of Souls,*
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so
dear.
ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.
ONE bumper at parting! - though many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any,
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure bas in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come, - may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die'midst the tears of the cup.
* " There are countries," says Montaigne, "where they believe
the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful
fields; and that it is those souls repeating the words we utter,
which we call Echo."




IRISH MELODIES.              57
As onward we journey, how pleasant
To'pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That'mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
Cries' Onward!' and spurs the gay hoursAh! never doth time travel faster
Than when his way lies among flowers.
But come - may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die'midst the tears of the cup.
We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright;
And now let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brimSo, fill up, let's shine at our parting,
rn full liquid glory, like him.
And 0, may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up;'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,
It dies'mid the tears of the cup.
H2




58            IRISH MELODIES.
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.'TIS the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So sodn may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?




IRISH  MELODIES.                   59
THE YOUNG MAY MOON,
THE  young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove, *
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear,'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.
Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage his star-watch keeping, love,
And I, whose star,
More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!
*       " Steals silently to Morna's grove."
See a translation from the Irish, in Mr. Bunting's collection, by
John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends;
whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his
life had been amiable, honorable and exemplary.




60            IRISH MELODIES.
THE MINSTREL BOY.
HE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him."Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"' Though all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
" One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The Minstrel fell! - but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, " No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
" They shall never sound in slavery!"




IRISH  MELODIES.                      61
THE SONG OF O'RUARK,
PRINCE OF BREFFNI.*
THE  valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd 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 enfold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd.
* These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions, and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as
related by O'Halloran. " The king of Leinster had long conceived
a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath;
and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince
of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on
a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, (an act of piety frequent in those
days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying
her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns."-The monarch Roderick espoused
the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II. "Such,"' adds Giraldus Cambrensis, " is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all
mischiefs in the world (for the most part) do happen an I come, as
may appear by Marcus Antonills, and by the destruction of Troy."'




~62           IRISH MELODIES.
I flew to her chamber -'t was 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 throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of women!
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, through a million of foemen,
Who dar'd but to wrong thee in thought!
While now - 0 degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!
And through 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 dishonor,
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,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.




IRISH MELODIES.               63
O HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE.
OH  had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and-alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of
flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause
With so fond a delay,
That the night only draws
A thin veil o'er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.
There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love as they lov'd in the first golden
time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer
there.
Wtth affection as free
From decline as the bowers,
And with hope, like the bee
Living always on flowers,
Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on holy and calm as the night.




64            IRISH MELODIES.
FAREWELL.
F AREWELL!- but whenever you welcome the
hour
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think 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 his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantments around him while lingering with
you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest 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;
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me 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 were
here!"
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
And which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy us'd to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filll'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.




IRTSH MELODIES.              65
OH DOUBT ME NOT.
OH doubt me not!-the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love.
Although this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not -the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove 
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awak'd by love.
And though my lute no longer
May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee through many a garden roves,
And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not - the- season
Is o'er, when Folly kept me free;
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall guard the flame awak'd by thee.




66             IRISH MELODIES.
YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.*
you remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she bless'd her humble lot
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot?
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William at length in sadness said,
" We must seek our fortune on other plains;"Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.
They roam'd a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
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 he pass'd the gate.
"Now welcome, Lady!" exclaimed the youth,
" This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!"
She believ'd him craz'd, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall.
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves
What William the stranger woo'd and wed;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.
* This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting
story told of a certain noble family in England.




IRISH MELODIES.             67
I'D MOURN THE HOPES.
I'D mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I've thee before me,
With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,
That smile turns them all to light.'Tis not in Fate to harm me,
While Fate leaves thy love to me;'Tis not in Joy to charm me,
Unless Joy be shar'd with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!
And though the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
O, we shall journey on, love,
More safely, without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me
Along the path I've yet to roam:The mind that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.




68            IRISH MELODIES.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,
And looks round in fear and doubt
But soon, the prospect clearing,
By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds!
COME O'ER THE SEA.
COME o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine through sunshine, storm and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let Fate frown on, so we love and part not;'Tis life where thou art,'tis death where thou art not.
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Was not the sea
Made for the Free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves,
But on the waves
Love and Liberty's all our own.




IRISH MELODIES.                 X
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us -
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine through sunshine, storm and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.
flAS sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That even in sorroNw were sweet.
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
Has Love, to that soul so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,*
WVhere sparkles of golden splendor
All over the surface shine?
But if, in pursuit, we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love the bright ore is gone.
* Our Wicklow gold mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve,
I fear, but too well the character here given of them.
12




710             IRISH MELODIES.
Has Hope, like the bird in the story,*
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory -
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away 
If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself look'd bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that one was dear;Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.
N0, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full quire of heaven is near,*  The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the
talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping he would
drop it: but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again," &C. —ARABIAN NIGHTS, Story of Kummir al Zummaun.




IRISH MELODIES.              71
Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort!'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of my soul echo'd to its spell!'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!
I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.
WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.
WIHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander,
But go, deceiver! go,The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it.
When every tongue thy follies nam'd.
I fled the unwelcome story;




72            IRISH MELODIES.
Or found, in ev'u the faults they blam d,
Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspir'd to wrong, to slight thee;
The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go, —
Some day perhaps thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.
Ev'n now, though.youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:
The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,'
No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go, - go, - though worlds were thine
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine
For all thy guilty splendor!
And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost forever,On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still received thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believed thee.




IRISH MELODIES.              73
Go - go -'t is vain to curse,'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.
WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.
WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But 0, 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
That 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-' Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
"I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.
"' For though Heroes I've'number'd, unblest was
their- lot,
"And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of
Fame;"But 0 there is not
"One dishonoring blot
"On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's
name!




74             IRISH MELODIES.
"Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
-The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet
known;
[ho' 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,.:o, 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!"
THE TIMIE I'VE LOST IN WOOING.
THE time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light that lies
In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the Sprite*
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
rhis alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with,
they say, in the fields at dusk; —as long as you keep your eyes




IRISH  MELODIES.                   75
Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,
O, winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing'
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No, - vain, alas, the endeavor
From bonds so sweet to sever; —
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.
OH WHERE'S THE SLAVE.
0H, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
upon him, he is fixed, and in your power; but the moment you
look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement)
he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call
the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady
Morgan (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel) has given a very different account of that goblin.




76            IRISH MELODIES.
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin, - farewell, all
Who live to weep our fall 
COME, REST IN TIIIS BOSOM.
COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd has fled from thee, thy home is
still here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.




IRISH MELODIES.                77
Oh, what was love made for, if'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel, in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be,'mid the horrors of this,Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!'TIS GONE AND FOREVER.'TIS gone, and forever, the light 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 blest 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,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And darkest of all, hapless Erin! o'er thee.
For high was thy hope, when those glories wgre
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.*
Oh, never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then,-had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations-how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee!
* "The sun-burst " was the fanciful name given by the ancient
Irish to the royal banner.
KS




78             IRISH MELODIES.
But, shame on those tyrants who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptis'd it in blood!
Then vanish'd forever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin! on thee.
I SAW FROM THE BEACH.
I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from
us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;
Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of
Morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best
light.




IRISH MELODIES.              79
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul - like the wood that grows precious in
burningGave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!
FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.
FILL the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when through the frame
It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say,
Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
From the starr'd dominions;So we, Sages, sit
And'mid bumpers bright'ning,
From the heaveh of Wit
Draw down all its lightning.




80            IRISH MELODIES.
Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanced upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away
The living fires that warm us.
The careless Youth, when up
To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup
To hide the pilfer'd fire in.But 0 his joy! when, round
The halls of heaven spying,
Among the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.
Some drops were in that bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the Sparks of Soul
Mix'd their burning treasure.
Hence the goblet's shower
Hath such spells to win us;
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.




IRTSH  MELODIES.                     81
DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.
DfEAR  Harp of my Country! in darkness I found
thee,
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 song!
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 e'en 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!
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.
* In, that rebellious but beautiful song, " When Erin first rose,'
there is, if I recollect right, the following line -'The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep.'
The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric
among the ancient* Irish. Walker tells us of" a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at
Almhaim, where the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the Chain of Silence,..and
flung themselves among the ranks."  See also the Ode to,.Gaul, in.
Miss Brookes's Reliques of Irish Poetry.
K2




82            IRISH MELODIES.
MY GENTLE HARP.
MY 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 heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
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,
Though 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 shall 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 - lalf flowers, half chains 2




iRISH MELODIES.              83
But come,- if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, 0 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 thrill -
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,'Mid desolation, tuneful still.*
AS SLOW OUR SHIP.
AS slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle'twas leaving:So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, as on we rove,
*To those we've left behind us.
When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
We talk, with joyous seeming,With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad, their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twin'd us,
-Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us!
* Dlmldio magicae resonant ubi Memnone chordia." Juvzxaa.




IRISH MELODIES.
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss
If Heaven had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As travellers 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,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.
IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.
IN the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright beaming world 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.




IRISH MELODIES                85
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
high,
First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;
Then, then is the time when affection holds sway
With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;
Love, nurs'd among pleasures, is faithless as they,
But the Love born of Sorrow, like sorrow, is true.
In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid the flowers,
Their sighs have no freshness, their odor no worth;'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers
That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.
So it is not'mid splendor, prosperity, mirth,
That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;
To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,
But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.
WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH.
WHEN cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast
lov'd,
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;
Or, if from their slumber the veil be remov'd,
Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.
And O, if'tis pain to remember how far
From the pathways of light he was tempted to
roam,
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star
That arose on his darkness, and guided him home.




86            IRISH MELODIES.
From thee and thy innocent beauty first came
The reveafings 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 cam'st like a soft golden calm o'er the sea;
And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled
On his evening 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.
REMEMBER THEE.
REMEMBER thee? yes, while 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.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and
free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,




IRISH MLLODIES.              87
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But O, 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.
WREATH THE BOWL.
WREATH the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid
The wreaths be hid
That Joy, the enchanter brings us,
No danger fear,
While wine is near,
We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.




88            fRISH MELODIES.'Twas nectar fed
Of old,'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
And man may brew
His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar splendid.
So, wreath the bowl
Wvith flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Say, why did Time
His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly 
Oh, lend it us,
And smiling thus,
The glass in two we'll sever,
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,
And fill both ends;foT ever!




IRISH MELODIES.              8
Then wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES
WHENE'ER I see those smiling eyes,
So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
To dim a heaven so purely bright -
I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it once was gay.
For time will come with all its blights,
The ruin'd hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves where'er it lights
A chill'd or burning heart behind;While youth, that now like snow appears,
Ere sullied by the darkening rain,
When once'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears
Will never shine so bright again.




90             IRISH MELODIES.
IF THOU' LT BE MINE.
IF thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air,
Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;
Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,
Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet,
Shall be ours-if thou wilt be mine, love!
Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,
A voice divine shall talk in each stream,
The stars shall look like \vorlds of love,
And this earth be all one beautiful dream
In our eyes - if thou wilt be mine, love!
And thoughts whose source is hidden and high,
Like streams that come from heavenward hills,
Shall keep our hearts, like meads that lie
To be bath'd by those eternal rills,
Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!
All this and more the Spirit of Love
Can breathe o'er them who feel his spells;
That heaven, which forms his home above,
He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,
As thou'lt own, if thou wilt be mine, love!




IRISH MELODIES.              91
TO LADIES' EYES.
TO Ladies' eyes around, boy,
We can't refuse, we can't refuse,
Though bright eyes so abound, boy,'Tis hard to choose,'tis hard to choose.
For thick as stars that lighten
Yon airy bowers, yon airy bowers,
The countless eyes that brighten
This earth of ours, this earth of ours.
But fill the cup - where'er, boy,
Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,
We're sure to find Love there, boy,
So drink them all! so drink them all!
Some looks there are so holy,
They seem but given, they seem but given,
As shining beacons, solely,
To light to heaven, to light to heaven.
While some -0, ne'er believe 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 there, boy,
So drink them all! so drink them all!
In some, as in a mirror,
Love seems portray'd, Love seems portray'd,
But shun the flattering error,'Tis but his shade,'tis but his shade.




92            IRISH MELODIES.
Himself has fixed his dwelling
In 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!
FORGET NOT THE FIELD.
FORGET not the field where they perish'd,
The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone - and the bright hopes we cherish'd
Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave!
Oh! could we from death but recover
Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high Heaven to fight over
That combat for freedom once more;Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which tyranny flung round us then,
No!'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
To let Tyranny bind it again!
But'tis past - and though 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.




IRISH MELODIES.               93
Far dearer the grave or the prison
Illum'd by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame.
THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.
THEY may rail at this life- from the hour 1 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'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,
As before me this moment enraptur'd 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,
Though the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing
them,*
They've none, even there, more enamor'd than I.
And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,
And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,
They may talk as they will of their Edens above,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
* " Tous les habitans de Mercure sont vifs."-PLURAL1TE DES
MONDES.
L2




94              IRISH MELODIES.
In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendor
At twilight so often we've roam'd thro' the dew,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as
tender,
And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.*
But tho' they were even more bright than the queen
Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why-this earth is the planet for you, love, and
me.
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,
Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,
Heaven knows we have plenty on earth we could
spare.
O think what a world we should have of it here,
If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee,
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,
And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and
me.
OH FOR THE SWORDS.
OH for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them.
When, arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them!
*' La Terre pourra etre pour Venus l'etoile du berger et le mbre
des amours, comme Venus Plest pour nOS.' —PLUR. DES MONDESo




IRISH MELODIES.             95
When free yet, ere courts began
With honors to enslave him,
The best honors worn by Man
Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, &c.
Oh for the kings who flourished then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!
When, safe built on bosoms true,
The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew,
That Treason durst not enter.
Oh for the Kings who flourished then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!
NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.
NE'ER ask the hour-what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second;
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.




96            IRISH MELODIES.
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 hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
A dial, by way of warning.
But Joy lov'd better to gaze on the sun,
As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole
on,
And how fast that light was going.
So fill the cup —what is it to us
How Time his circle measures i
The fairy hours we call up thus
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.
SAIL ON, SAIL ON.
SAIL on, sail on, thou fearless bark -
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
" Though death beneath our smile may be,.
"' Less cold we are, less false than they,
" Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee."'




IRISH MELODIES.                  97
Sail on, sail on - through endless space -
Thro' calm - thro' tempest - stop no more;
The stormiest sea' s a resting place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or -if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profan'd a world that else were sweet,Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.
THE PARALLEL.
yES, sad one of Sion* — if closely resembling,
In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heartIf drinking deep, deep of the same' cup of trembling'
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.
Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken,
And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown;
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation has. spoken,
And while it is day yet,' her sun hath gone down.'t
Like thine doth her exile,'mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that blest them of old.
* These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by
Mr Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were once Jews.
t " Her sun is gone. down while it was yet day.'-JER. xv. 9.




98               IRISH MELODIES
Ah, well may we call her like thee,' the Forsaken,'*
Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves;
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they
waken,
Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over
graves!
Yet hadst thou thy vengeance,- yet came there the
rnorrow
That shines out at last on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and
sorrow,
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden
Cityt
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drenched her own
lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without
pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.
When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came
over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,
And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover,:
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.11
*'Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken.'-IsA. lxii. 4.
t'How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!'ISA. XiV. 4.
*'Thy pomp is brought down to the grave,.... and the
worms cover thee.'-ISA. xiv. 11.
1I' Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms.'ISA. xlvii. 5.




IRISH MELODIES.                99
DRINK OF THIS CUP.
DRINK of this cup - you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
To Immortals themselves, you must drain every
drop of it.
Send round the cup - for 0 there's a spell in
Its every drop'gainst the ills of mortality -
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Never was philter form'd with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distilled,
To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup- you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop'gainst the ills of mortality -
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.




100           IRISH MELODIES.
And though, perhaps - but breathe it to no one -
Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
Yet't is n't less potent for being unlawful.
And e'en though it taste of the smoke of that flame
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden -
Fill up - there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work too its charm, though as lawless
and hidden.
So drink of the cup - for 0, there's a spell in
Its every drop'gainst the ills of mortality -
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
THE FORTUNE TELLER.
DOWN in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever'twas told, by the new-moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.
But,'for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.
If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition - the image of him
Whose destiny'tis to adore you.




IRISH MELODIES.            10I
And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find'Twixt him and a true living lover.
Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion -
An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.
What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.
OH, YE DEAD.
OH, ye Dead! O, ye Dead! whom we know by the
light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move
like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far-off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot, where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie
dead?
It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we lov'd on earth
are gone;
M




102               IRISH MELODIES.
But still, thus ev'n in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wan.
der'd o'er,
That ere, condemn'd, we go
To freeze'mid Hecla's snow,*
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once
more!
O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.
OF all the fair months that round the sun
In light-link'd 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.
* Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part
of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign
lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living
people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say'
they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.
t The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his
White Horse may be found in Mr Weld's Account of Killarney, or




IRTSH  MELODIES.                     103
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.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launched, thy long mane curls,*
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,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.
more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his
death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the
morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favorite white
horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by
groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring
flowers in his path.
Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes
it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain,
that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of
insanity, on a May morning, threw herself into the lake.
* The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on
a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white horses."




104           IRISH MELODIES.
ECHO.
HOW sweet the answer Echo makes
To Music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And, far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light!
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
Than e'cr 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,
Breath'd back again.
OH ]BANQUET NOT.
O H banquet not in those shining bowers
Where youth 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.




IRISH MELODIES.             105
There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around u.s shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel gwaves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.
THE dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night'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,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee,
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.
x2




106            IRISH MELODIES.
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells that naught on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world make wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.
SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.
SHALL the Harp then be silent, when he who first
gave
To our country a name is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave
Where the first-where the last of her Patriots lies?
No-faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though 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, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit-whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind?
* It is only the first two verses that are either fitted or intended
to be sung.




.IRISH MELODIES.            107
Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime
Like a pyramid rais'd in the desert - where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;
That one lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,
A, nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,
And for one sacred instant touch'd Liberty's goalWho, 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 untam'd spring of her spirit are shown;
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that
shone through,
As clear as the brook's' stone of lustre,' that gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too -
Who, that ever approached him, when free from the
crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which
bow'd,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head



108           IRISH MELODIES.
Is there one who hath thus, through his orbit of life,
RBlt at distance observ'd him —through glory,
through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the
same --
Oh no, not a heart that e'er knew him but mourns
Deep, deep o'er the grave where such glory is
shrin'd
O'er a monument Fame will preserve'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind.
OH THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.
OH, the sight entrancing,
When morning beam is glancing
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
And plumes in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song whose breath
May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing




IRISH MELODIES.              109
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
And plumes in the gay wind dancing.
Yet,'t is 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,
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 beam is glancing
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
And in Freedom's cause advancing!




110           IRISH MELODIES.
SWEET INNISFALLEN.
SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well.
May calmn 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.
ST was light, indeed, too blest for one
Who had to turn to paths of care -
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.
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, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest -




IRISH MELODIES.               111
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 tearsFor, though 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.'T WAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMIS.*'TWAS one of those dreams that by music are
brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm
thought-,
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
lHe had taught to singErin'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.
* Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney




112           IRISH MELODIES.
He listen'd - while high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way lov'd 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 every sweet note that died here
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heaven in those hills,where the soul of the strain
That had ceas'd upon earth was awaking again.
Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death
He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,
" Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:
" Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away
"'T will be caught up again in some happier day,
" And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
" Thro' the answering future, thy name and thy song.
FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.
FAIREST! put on awhile
These pinions of light 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.




IRISH  MELODIES.                   113
Fields, where the Spring delays,
And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm  Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.
Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course through air
He hath been won down by them —*
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
From heaven, 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 weeping.
* In describing the Skeligs (islands in the Barony of Forth),
Dr. Keating says, " There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil
which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and
obliges them to light upon the rock."
t " Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the
abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them
behind their ears; and this we find confirmed by a present made
A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, archbishop
of Canterbury,of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."-O'HALLORAN.
N




114           IRISH MELODIES.
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, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious -
Thinking how man hath curst
What Heaven had made so glorious.
QUICK! WE HAYE BUT A SECOND,
QUICK! we have but a second,'Fill round the cup, while you may:
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
For oh! not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup, while you may
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!
* Glengariff.




IRISH MELODIES.I in1
See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,
If ever thou seest that day,
When a cup or a lip 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!
AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.
AND doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I've been wand'ring awayTo see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing-what then?
Like Alps in the sun-set, 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 part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,




116                IRISH  IMIELODIES.
So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced,
The 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,
Though 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,
Deceiv'd 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, hastening on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.t
* "Jours charmans, quand je songe a vos heureux instans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans;
Et mon cceur enchant( sur la rive fleurie
Respire encore l'air pur du matin de la vie."
i The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend Mr.
Washington Irving, in his' Bracebridge Hall,' vol. i. p. 213. The
pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend is much
enhanced by the reflection, that he is too good an American to have
admitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known
that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him
birth have long been such as every real lover of the liberty and
happiness of the human race must entertain.




IRISH MELODIES.             I17
But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
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't is o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand; ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct through the chain.
THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.
IN yonder valley there dwelt, alone,
A youth whose moments had calmly flown,
Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,
He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite.
As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er
The golden sands of that island shore,
A foot-print sparkled before his sight-'T was the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!
Beside a fountain, one sunny day,
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 flight
Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.
N2




s18           IRISH MELODIES.
One night, still haunted by that bright look,
The boy, bewilder'd, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,
Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.
"6 Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried
A voice, low whispering by his side,
6" Now turn and see," - here the youth's delight
Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.
6' Of all the Spirits of land and sea,"
Then rapt he murmur'd, "there's none like thee,
" And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light
"' In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"
AS VAINQUISH'D ERIN.,AS vanquish'd Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropt his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, " ye venom'd darts,
", Where mortal eye may shun you;
6' 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;




IRISH MELODIES.                    119
And brings triumphant from beneath
His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,
Through all her madd'ning nation.
Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Even now, beside that river -
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
And stor'd is still his quiver,
" When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"
She weeping asks for ever;
But only hears, from out that flood,
The demon answer, " Never!"
DE SMIOND'S SONG.*
the Feal's wave benighted,
No star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.
* "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally
been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee,
and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of
one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful
daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded
this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his
family."-LELAND, vol. ii.




120           IRISH MELODIES.
Some voice whisper'd o'er me,
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
If I lov'd I was lost.
Love 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 her eyes.
While the Monarch but traces
Through mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to Divine!




IRISH  MELODIES..                 121
THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.
THEY  know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower,
I could harm what I love - as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.
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-'t is the soul dawning clear
Through 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!
I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE
I WISH 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.
* These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these
gloomy regions of Donegal (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which
was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate
state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was
dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during
the dark ages attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the




122               IRISH  MELODIES.
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, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet even when dead;
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life's deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o'ercharg'd 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,
Unmov'd by either joy or woe,
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.
resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in
Europe."
" It was," as the same writer tells us, " one of the most dismal
and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep
glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and
the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled
only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from
strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes." —
Strict. on the Ecel. and Lit. Hist. of Ireland.




IRISH MELODIES.                  123
SHE SUNG  OF LOVE.
SHE sung of Love, while o'er her 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.
But soon the West no longer burn'd;
Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;
And when to gaze again I turn'd,
The minstrel's form seem'd fading too.
As if her light and heaven's were one,
The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came.*
Who ever lov'd, but had the thought
That he and all he lov'd must part?
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart -
* The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in
Mr. Rogers's Poem of " Human Life," beginning" Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly."
I would quote the entire passage, but that I fear to put my own
humble imitation of it out of countenance.




124           IRISH MELODIES.
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 away?"
SING  SING — MUSIC WAS GIVEN.
SING - sing - Music was given
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she,who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
Then sing - sing - Music was given
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
When Love, rock'd by his mother,
Lay sleeping, as calm as slumber could make him,
" Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while,
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile,
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.




IRISH MELODIES.             125
Then sing - sing - Mu.sic was given
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET.
THO' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to
light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.
And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from
the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favouring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.'Tis that freedom of mind which no vulgar dominion
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.'T is this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereav'd
The breeze of his garden'o him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er receiv'd.
0o




126            IRISH MELODIES.
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.
SING, SWEET HARP.
SING, 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.
W-hose light once 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!



IRISH MELODIES.             127
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.
Couldst 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.
SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.
TIME -THE NINTH CENTURY.
TO-MORROW, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low 
The morning-star is up,But there's wine still in the cup,
And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go
We'll take another quaff, ere we go.




128           IRISH iMELODIES.'T is true, in manliest eyes
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, boy,
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?
But-no matter-grasp thy sword and away, boy,
away.
No matter - grasp thy sword, and away!
Let those who brook 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! hurra!
hurra!
Then, for Erin and her cause, lurra!




IRISH MELODIES.             129
THE WANDERING BARD.
WHAT life like that of the bard can be,
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes, -
A fount that for ever flows!The world's to him like some play-ground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round
If dimm'd the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod:
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he.
Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,
In the poet's lay live on. -
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him,
Who, with a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,Young stars that never die.
Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,
For, though he hath countless airy homes,
02




130           IRISH MELODIES.
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth.
ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON,
A.LONE in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes belov'd
Shed round us once, where'er we rov'd —
This, this the doom must be
Of all who've lov'd, and liv'd to see
The few bright things, they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.
Though fairer forms around us throng,
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice-where are they now 2
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.




IRISH MELODIES.               131
Oh what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold!
No, no, - her spell is vain,As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave
I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE
J'VE 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 dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,* who born among
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,-his only song
To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"
* The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.




132              IRISH MELODIES.
SONG'OF INNISFAIL.
THEY  came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
" Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
Our destin'd home or grave?" *
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.
And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As though in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light through the wave was seen.
"'T is Innisfail-'t is Innisfail!" +
Rings o'er the echoing sea,
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and free.
Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.
* "Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and
there inhabit."-KEATING..
t The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.




IRISH MBELODIES.             133
THE NIGHT DANCE.
STRIKE 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 heaven 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 such 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 wond'ring o'er us?
Again, that strain!  to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses boundingAgain! 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 togethor!




134            IRISH MELODIES.
THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.
TIIERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing.
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 siren call obey.
And see —the lamps still livelier glitter,
The siren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of vwomnan's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?
Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,-their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race,*
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's -power could n't cast from its base.
* The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is
able to dislodge from their stations.




MIELODIES.                136
OH ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANIVIORE.
OH! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wander'd young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danc'd along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing; --
That Eden, where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
* "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a
clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail, or the Enchan.
ted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which
they relate a number of romantic stories."-BEAUFORT'S Ancient
Topography of Ireland.




136             IRISH MELODIES.
Ah dream too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,As sunny and as vain!
LAY HIS SAORD BY HIS SIDE.
LAY his sword by his side,*-it hath serv'd him
too well,
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave, -
That sword which he lov'd still unbroke in its
sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause - for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breath'd from his brave heart's remains;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!
* It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the
Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with
them.




IRISH MELODIES.             137
"Should some alien, 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!"
OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD.
OH could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
By the week or month to take it.
Like those gay flies that wing through air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
Whenever they wish to use it;
So in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
Break forth whenever we choose it.
P




138               IRISH MELODIES.
While every joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
Such shadows will all be omitted:Unless they are like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun,
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
Each spot where it hath flitted!
THE WINE CUP IS CIRCLING.
THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,*
And its Chief,'mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining,
When, hark! that shout
From  the vale without,Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
Every Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And " To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry
* The palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson)
in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the County of
Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of
the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of
the Finian and Ossianic legends.




IRISH MELODIES.              139
The minstrels have seiz'd their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers, -'T is like the voice of the Brave of old,
Breaking forth from their place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst* o'er them floated wide;
While remembering the yoke
Which their fathers broke,
"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.
Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward mov'd, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering,
With the mingling shock
Rung cliff and rock,
While rank on rank the invaders die.
And the shout that last
O'er the dying pass'd
Was " Victory! victory! "- the Finians' cry.
THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.
TEHE dream of those days when first IJsung thee is
o'er,
Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows
then wore,
* The name given to the banner of the Irish.




140           IRISH MELODIES.
And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy
chains,
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.
Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,
That still the dark brand is there, though chainless
thou art;
And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long
burn'd,
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd?
Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,
With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy
tread!
Ah, better thou ne'er hadst liv'd that summit to gain,
Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane
FROM THIS HOUR THE" PLEDGE IS GIVEN.
FROM this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour 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 dar'd 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.




IRISH  MELODIES.                 141
Though 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 dreaming,
When glory deck'd thy brow,
Oft I fondly think, though seeming
So fallen and clouded now,
Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming, -
None so bright, so blest as thou.
SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.*
SILENCE is in our festal halls, -
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er:
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more;All silent as th' Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze, that wak'd its swell
At sunny morn hath died away.
Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
Awak'd by music's spell shall rise;
* It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these
lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of
an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.
2




142            IRISH MELODIES.
For name so link'd with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And oven within the holy fane,
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought of him, whose earliest strain
Was echo'd there, shall long be given.
But, where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side,
He, who now weaves this parting lay,
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past.
Shall still. in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, —
Or, if thy bard have shar'd the crown,
From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.




SACRED SONGS








SACRED SONGS.
THOU ART, OH GOD!
"The day is thine; the night also is thine: thou hast prepared
{he light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth;
thou hast made summer and winter."-PsA. 1xxiv. 16, 17.
THOU art, O God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see.
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!
When Day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heavenThose hues, that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.
When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumrbered eyes -
-That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.




SACRED  SONGS.
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!
FALLEN IS THY THRONE.
FALLEN  is thy throne, 0 Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more.
Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem
Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage,*
Her power thy glory's throne;t
Till evil came, and blighted
Thy long-loved olive-tree;t
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee!
* "I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly-beloved
of my soul into the handls of her enemies."-JER. xii. 7.
t "Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."-JEa. xiv. 21.
$ "The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree; fair and of
goodly fruit."'-Jae. xi. 65.




SACRED SONGS.                     147
Then sunk the star of Solyma 
Then pass'd her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness,~
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
While Baal reign'd as God!
" Go,"-said the Lord —" Ye conquerors
Steep in her blood your swords,
And rase to earth her battlements,*
For they are not the Lord's!
Till Zion's mournful daughter
O'er kindred bones shall tread,
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter f
Shall hide but half her dead."
THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.
THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
~ "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."-JER. xvii. 6,
* Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's."JER. v. 10.
t " Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it
shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of
Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Try.
phet, till there be no place."-JEa. vii. 32.




148                SACRED  SONGS.
Deceitful shine, deceitful flowThere's nothing true but heaven'
And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;
And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's blootmn
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,There's nothing bright but heaven.
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way -
There's nothing calm but heaven!
WHO  IS  THE  M'IAID?
ST. JEROME'S LOVE. *
WAHO is the maid my spirit seeks,
Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses -on' her cheeks?
Is her's an eye of this world's light?
No, - wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
* These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's reply
to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated upon his intimacy with the matron Paula: —" Numquid me vestes sericze, ni.
tentes gemma, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio? Nulla fuit
alia Romoe matronarum, quze meam possit edomare mentem, nisi
lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cacata." —Epist.' Si tibi puterm.'




SACRED SONGS.                   149
Or if, at times, a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.
I chose not her, my soul's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine!
No —Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.i
Not so the faded form I prize
And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
Is all the grace her brow puts on.
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,
So touching as that form's decay,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,
In holy lustre wastes away!
THE BIRD LET LOOSE.
THE bird, let loose in eastern skies,t
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.
t Chrysost. Homil, 8. in Epist. ad Tim.
t The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch,
in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to
which she is destined.
Q




150            SACRED SONGS-.
But high she shoots through air and lignt,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God! from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud - no lure to stay
My Soul, as home she springs;Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings!
OH THOU WHO DRY'ST!
"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."
— PSA. cxlvii. 3.
OH Thou! who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, w.ean deceiv'd and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he, who has bYt tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.




SACRED SONGS.              i61
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!
WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.
W-EEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chill'd the fair fountain ere sorrow had
stain'd it,'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of heaven has unchain'd it,
To water that Eden where first was its source!
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.




152                 SACRED  SONGS.
Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale,*
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,
And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow
Oh! then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying
From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown
And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying
Were echoed in heaven by lips like her own!
Weep not for her, - in her spring-time she flew
To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd,
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.
THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.
THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.t
* This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to
the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late
Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after: the sound of
her marriage bells seeming scarcely out of our ears when we heard
of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in
a voice even olearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were
some from the present collection (particularly, " There's nothing
bright but Heaven,") which this very interesting girl had often
heard during the summer.
t Pii orant tacite.




SACRED SONGS. 1.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward. to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy throne!
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.
Thy heaven, on which't is bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.
I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness breaking through!
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of the Deity!
There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love,
And meekly wait that moment when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!
Q2




154               SACRED  SONGS.
SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.
MIRIAM'S SONG.
"And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a
timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with
timbrels and with dances."-ExoD. xv. 20.
SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free.
Sing-for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave;
How vain was their boast,fortheLord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd,-his people are free!
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory,*
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide!
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd, — his people are free.
* "And it came to pass, that, in the morning-watch, the Lord
looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire
and of the cloud, and troubled the hosts of the Egyptians." —ExoD.
xiv. 24.




SACRED SONGS.                155
GO, LET ME WEEP!
GO, let me weep - there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some ling'ring stain of early years
Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth, and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Go, let me weep!
Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw
But left no trace of sweets behind.
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart, where pure repentance grieves
O'er hours of pleasure loved too well!
Leave me to sigh.
COME NOT, 0 LORD!
COME not, 0 Lord! in the dread robe of splendor
Thou wor'st on the Mount, in the day of thine
ire;
Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender
Which mercy flings over thy features of fire!




156              SACRED SONGS.
Lord! thou remember'st the night, when thy nation*
Stood fronting her foe by the red-rolling stream;
O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation,
While Israel bask'd all the night in its beam.
So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee
From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
O turn upon us the mild light of thy Love'
WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.
WERE not the sinful Mary's tears
An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
She wept - and was forgiven?When bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet
The precious odors poured; —
And wiped them with that golden hair,
Where once the diamond shone,
Though now those gems of grief wvere there
Which shine for God alone!
* " And it came between the camp of til- Egyptians and the
camp of Israel: and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it
gave light by night to these." Exod. xiv. 20. My application of
this passage is borrowed from some late prose writer, whose name
I am ungrateful enough to forget.




SACRED SONGS.                157
Were not those sweets so humbly shed, -
That hair -those weeping eyes,And the sunk heart, that inly bled,Heaven's noblest sacrifice?
Thou that hast slept in error's sleep,
0 wouldst thou wake in heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
" Love much,"*- and be forgiven!
AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.
AS down in the sunless retreats of the ocean,
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to thee,
My God! silent to thee -
Pure, warm, silent, to thee.
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,. The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to thee,
My God! trembling to thee -
True, fond, trembling, to thee.
* " Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved
much."-ST. LUKE vii. 47.




1f58               SACRED  SONGS.
BUT WHO SHALL SEE.
BUT who shall see the glorious day,
When, throned on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away
Which hides the nations now!*
When earth no more beneath the fear
Of his rebuke shall lie;t
When pain shall cease, and every tear
Be wiped from every eye!t
Then, Judah! thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain;
Thy days of splendor shall return,
And all be new again.~
The Fount of Life shall then be quaffed
In peace by all who come! 11
And every wind that blows shall waft
Some long-lost exile home!
* " And he will destroy in this mountain the face of the covering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over all nations."-IsA. xxv. 7.
t " The rebuke of his people shall he take avway from off all the
earth."-IsA. XXV. S.
$ " And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither
shall there be any more pain."-REv. xxi. 4.
~ " And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold I make all
things new."-R-Ev. xxi. 5.
11 " And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freeLy." —REv. xxii. 17.




SACRED SONGS.                      159
ALMIGHTY GOD.
CHORUS OF PRIESTS.
ALMIGHTY God! when round thy shrine
The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,*
(Emblem  of Life's eternal ray,
And Love that " fadeth not away,")
We bless the flowers, expanded all,t
We bless the leaves that never fall,
And trembling say, " In Eden thus
The Tree of Life may flower for us!"
When round thy Cherubs- smiling calm
Without their flames ~ —we wreath the palm,
O God! we feel the emblem  true,Thy mercy is eternal too!
Those Cherubs with their smiling eyes,
That crown of palm which never dies,
Are but the types of Thee above
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love.
* " Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem
was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the
PALMS, which made so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that LIFE and.IMIIORTALITY which were brought to light
by the Gospel."-Observations on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem,
by W. Tigh.
t " And he carved all the walls of the house round about with
carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and OPEN FLOWERS."
-1 KINGS vi. 29.
~ " When the passover of the tabernacles was revealed to the
great law-giver in the mount, then the cherubic images which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded by flames: for
the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation of mercy, by which
Jehovah confirmed his gracious covenant to redeem  mankind." —
Observations on the Palm.




:60                SACRED  SONGS.
O FAIR! O PUREST!
SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.*
O FAIR! 0 purest! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hovering hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear
Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey,
And warns the timorous bird away.
Be thou this dove;
Fairest! purest!  be thou this dove.
The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray:And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!
Be thou that dove;
Fairest! purest! be thou that dove.
* In St. Augustine's treatise upon the advantages of a solitary
life, addressed to his sister, there is the following fanciful passage,
from which the thought of this song is taken:' Te, soror, nunquam
nolo esse securam, sed timere, semperque tuam fragilitatem habere
suspectam, ad instar pavidwe columbha frequentare rivos aquarum
et quasi ill speculo accipitris cernere supervolantis effigiem et cavere. Rivi aquarum seutentice sunt scripturarum, quoe de limpidissimo sapientia fonte profluentes," etc. etc.- DE VIT. EREMIT. AD
SOROREM.




SACRED SONGS.               161
ANGEL OF CHARITY.
ANGEL of Charity, who, from above
Comes to dwell a pilgrim here,
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,
And pity's soul is in thy tear!
When on the shrine of God were laid
First-fruits of all most good and fair,
That ever bloom'd in Eden's shade,
Thine was the holiest offering there!
Hope and her sister, Faith, were given
But as our guides to yonder sky;
Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,
There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.*
But long as Love, almighty Love,
Shall on his throne of thrones abide,
Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above,
Smiling forever by His side.
BEHOLD THE SUN.
BEHOLD the Sun, how bright
From yonder east he springs,
As if the soul of life and light
Were breathing from his wings.
* "Then Faith shall fail, and holy Hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy."  PRIOR.
R




162             SACRED SONGS'.
So bright the Gospel broke
Upon the souls of men;
So fresh the dreaming world awoke
In truth's full radiance then!
Before yon Sun arose,
Stars clustered through the sky -
But 0, how dim, how pale were those,
To his one burning eye!
So Truth lent many a ray,
To bless the Pagan's night -
But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they
To Thy one glorious light!
LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.
LORD, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid;
When we shall see thy angel hovering o'er
This sinful world, with hand to heaven extended,
And hear him swear by Thee that time's no more?*
When earth shall feel thy fast-consuming rayWho, mighty God! 0 who shall bear that day?
* And the Angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the
earth lifted up his hand to heaven, and sware by Him that liveth
for ever and ever, that there should be time no longer. " REV. x. 5.




SACRED SONGS.                     163
When thro' the world thy awful call hath sounded,
" Wake, all ye dead, to judgment wake, ye dead! "I
And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded,
The Savior shall put forth his radiant head;1
While earth and heaven before him pass away —11
Who, mighty God! O who shall bear that day?
When, with a glance, the eternal Judge shall sever
Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright,
And say to those,' Depart from me forever!'
To these,' Come dwell with me in endless light!'~
When each and all in silence take their way -
Who, mighty God! 0 who shall bear thatday 
0 TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.
0  TEACI me to love thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart
Shall all other passions disown -
Like some pure temple that shines apart,
Reserved for thy worship alone!
t " Awake, ye dead, and come to judgment."
T They shall see the son of man coming in the clouds of heaven,
and all the angels with him.-MAT. xxiv. 30.
II From whose face the earth and the heaven fled away. REv. xx.
~.And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall
separate them one from another. Then shall the King say unto
them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit
the kingdom prepared for you, &c. Then shall he say also unto
them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, &c. And these
shall go away into everlasting punishment; bhut the righteous into!ife eternal.-MAT. xxv. 32.




1;4              SACRED SONGS.
In joy and in sorrow, thro' praise and thro' blame,
Thus still let me, living and dying the same,
In Thy service bloom and decay —
Like some lone altar, whose votive flame
In holiness wasteth away!
Tho' born in this desert, and doomed by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,
On Thee let my spirit rely -
Like some rude dial, that, fixed on earth,
Still looks for its light from the sky!
WEEP, CHILDREN  OF ISRAEL.
1WEEP, weep for him, the Man of God -*
In yonder vale he sunk to rest;
But none of earth can point the sod+
That flowers above his sacred breast.
%Weep, children of Israel, weep!
His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain,t
His words refreshed like Heaven's dew0, ne'er shall Israel see again
A Chief, to God and-her so true.
Weep, children of Israel, weep!
* And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the rlairis of
Moab. DEUT. xxxiv: 8.
t-And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab: but no
man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day. DEUT. xxxiv: 6.
X My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as
the dew. 3MosEs' SONG, DEUT. xxxii: 2.




SACRED SONGS.                     15
Remember ye his parting gaze,
His farewell song by Jordan's tide,
When, full of glory and of days,
He saw the promised land-and died! *
Weep, children of Israel, weep
Yet died he not as men who sink,
Before our eyes, to soulless clay;
But, changed to spirit, like a wink
Of summer lightning, passed away! t
Weep, children of Israel, weep!
LIKE  MORNING.
LIKE morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light -
Thy grace can send its breathings o'er
The spirit, dark and lost before,
And, freshening all its depths, prepare
For truth divine to enter there!
* I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not
go over thither. DEUT. xxxii: 4.
t As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still
discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and
he disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy
Books, that he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should
venture to say that, because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to
Sxod. JOSEPHUS, EOOK iV. CHAP. 8.
R,2




16&ii           SACRED SONGS.
Till David touched his sacred lyre,
In silence lay th' unbreathing wire;
But, when he swept its chords along
Even angels stooped to hear that song.
So sleeps the soul, till Thou, 0 Lord,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord -
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!
COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.
COME, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your
anguish -
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying —
" Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure."
Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us,
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us" Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal."




SACRED  SONGS.                    161
AWAKE, ARISE.
AWAKE, arise, thy light is come;"
The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb -
The glory of the Lord is on thee!
Arise-the Gentiles to thy ray,
From every nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
Their homage to thy rising lustre.~
Lift up thine eyes around, and see,
O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
To thee return thy home-sick daughters. t
And camels rich, from Midian's tents,
Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
To fill thine air, and sparkle o'er thee.t
* Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord
is risen upon thee. ISAIAH IX.
~ And the gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the
brightness of thy rising. ISAIAH lX.
t Lift up thine eyes round about and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar
and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side. ISAIAH 1X.
t The multitude of Camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of
Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall
bring gold and incense. IsAIAH Ix.




168                SACRED  SONGS.
See who are these that, like a cloud,*
Are gathering from all earth's dominions,
Like doves, long absent, when allowed
Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.
Surely the isles shall wait for me, t
The ships of Tarshish round will hover,
To bring thy sons across the sea,
And waft their gold and silver over.
And, Lebanon, thy pomp shall grace -
The fir, the pine, the palm victorious
Shall beautify our Holy Place,
And make the ground I tread on glorious.
No more shall discord haunt thy ways,~
Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;
But thou shalt call thy portals, Praise,
And thou shalt name thy walls, Salvation.
* Who are these that fly as a cloud, and as the doves to their
windows. ISAIAH lx.
t Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish
first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with
them. ISAIAH IX.
T The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the
pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary, and I will make the place of my feet glorious. ISAIAH IX.
~ Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls Salva
tion, and thy gates Praise. ISAIAH IX.




SACRED SONGS.                     16S
The sun no more shall make thee bright,t
Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;
But God himself shall be thy light,
And flash eternal glory through thee.
Thy sun shall never more go down;
A ray, from Heaven itself descended,
Shall light thy everlasting crown —
Thy days of mourning all are ended. t
My own, elect, and righteous Land!
The Branch, forever green and vernal,
Which I have planted with this hand -
Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.*
t Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee; but the Lord shall be
unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory. ISAIAH Ix.
$ Thy sun shall no more go down, for the Lord shall be thine
everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.
ISAIAH 1X.
* Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the
land forever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands.
ISAIAH lx.




i70             SACRED SONGS.
TIHERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.
THERE is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows
weary
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary -
What may-that Desert be?'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that
come
Are lost, like that daylight, for't is not their home.
There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and fliesWho may that Pilgrim be?'T is Man, hapless Man, through his life tempted on
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.
There is a bright Fountain, thro' that desert stealing,
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing -
What may that Fountain be?'T is Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under
ground,
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.*
There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell -
Who may that Spirit be?
Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learnt that
where'er
Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must be there.
* In singing, the following line had better be adopted:
Can but by the gifted of Heaven be found.




SACRED SONGS.                 171
SINCE FIRST THY WORD.
SINCE first thy word awaked my heart,
Like new life dawning o'er me,
Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,
All light and love before me.
Nought else I feel, or hear, or see -
All bonds of earth I sever -
Thee, 0 God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
Like him, whose fetters dropped away
When light shone o'er his prison,*
My spirit, touched by Mercy's ray,
Hath from her chains arisen.
And shall a soul Thou bid'st be free
Return to bondage? - never!
Thee, 0 God, and only Thee,
I live for, now and ever.
* And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light
shined in the prison, and his chains fell off from his hands. ACTS
xii: 7.




172             SACRED SONGS.
HARK,'TIS THE BREEZE,
H[ARK! —'t is the breeze of twilight calling
Earth's weary children to repose;
While round the couch of Nature falling,
Gently the night's soft curtains close.
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,
Numberless stars, through yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of cherubs shining
From out the veils that hid the Ark.
Guard us, 0 Thou, who never sleepest,
Thou who, in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
Thy watch of Glory, Power, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely
Our souls, awhile from life withdrawn,
May, in their darkness, stilly, purely,
Like " sealed fountains," rest till dawn.




SACRED SONGS.             173
WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?
WHERE is your dwelling, ye sainted?
Through what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits'?
Or hope to dwell with you there?
Sages! who, even in exploring
Nature through all her bright ways,
Went, like the seraphs, adoring,
And veiled your eyes in the blaze -
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
Truths you had sown in your bloodSinners! whom long years of weeping
Chastened from evil to good -
Maidens! who, like the young Crescent,
Turning away your pale brows
From earth, and the light of the Present,
Looked to your Heavenly Spouse -
Say, through what region enchanted
Walk ye, in heaven's sweet air?
Say, to what spirits'tis granted,
Bright souls, to dwell with you there?
S




174            SACRED SONGS.
HOW  LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.
HOW lightly mounts the Muse's wing
Whose theme is in the skies
Like morning larks, that sweeter sing
The nearer Heaven they rise!
Though Love his magic lyre may tune,
Yet ah! the flowers he round it wreathes
Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,
Whose madness in their odor breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute,
Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
And palm that never dies.
Though War's high-sounding harp may be
Most welcome to the hero's ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
Are wet all o'er with human tears.
How far more sweet their numbers run
Who hymn, like saints above,
No victor, but th' Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!




SACRED SONGS.                     175
GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT.
GO  forth  to  the Mount — bring the olive-branch
home, *
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
From that time, when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,t
Looking motionless down, saw the kings of the
earth,+
In the presence of God's mighty Champion grow pale,
O never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Moint-bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
Bring myrtle and palm-bring the boughs of each tree
That is worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free!~
From that day, when the footsteps of Israel shone
With a light not their own, through' the Jordan's
deep tide,
* And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities,
and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olivebranches, etc. etc. NEHEMIAH viii: 15.
t For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun, unto that day,
had not the children of Israel done so: and there was very great
gladness. NEHEMIAH viii: 17.
t Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon. JOSHUA X: 12.
~ Fetch olive-branches, and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches,
and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths.
NEHEMIAH viii: 15.




176              SACRED SONGS.
Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on-t
0 never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK.
IS it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the Spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wings, shall waft her
To those she long hath mourned for here z
Hearts, from which't was death to sever,
Eyes, this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.
When wearily we wander, asking
Of earth and heaven, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking -
Blest, and thinking bliss would stay!
Hope still lifts her radiant finger
Pointing to the eternal home,
$ And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord
stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground. JOSHUA iii: 17.




SACRED SONGS.                   177
Upon whose portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come.
Alas! alas! doth Hope deceive us?
Shall friendship, love, shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,
Be found again where nothing dies?
O, if no other boon were given,
To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a Heaven
Where all we love shall live again?
WAR AGAINST BABYLON.
",'WAR against Babylon!" shout we around,*
Be our banners through earth unfurled;
Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound - t
" War against Babylon!" shout through the world!
O thou, that dwellest on many waters,$
Thy day of pride is ended now;
And the dark curse of Israel's daughters
Breaks, like a thunder-cloud, over thy brow!
War, war, war, against Babylon!
* Shout against her round about. JEREMIAH i: 15.
t Set up a standard in the land, blow the trumpet among the
nations, prepare the nations against her, call together against her
the kingdoms, etc. etc. JEREMIAH li: 27.
t O thou, that dwellest upon many waters, thy end is come
JEREMIAH li: 13.
S2




178               SACRED SONGS.
Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields,~
Set the standard of God on high -
Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields,' Zion' our watchword, and' Vengeance' our cry!
Woe! woe!-the time of thy visitation *
Is come, proud Land, thy doom is cast -
And the black surge of desolation
Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last!
War, war, war, against Babylon!
~ Make bright the arrows; gather the shields....set up
the standard upon the walls of Babylon. JEREMIAH li.
* Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation. JEREMIAH li.




INDEX.
IRISH MELODIES.
After the Battle........................................   33
Alone in crowds to wander on............................  130
And doth not a meeting like tlls make amends............  115
As a beam o'er the fice of the waters may glow............    11
As slow our ship her foamy track........................   83
As vanquish'd Erin wept beside........................  11s
At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping........   56
Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin........    49
Before the Battle........................................   32
Believe me, if all those endearing youlg charms............   25;
By that Lake whose gloomy shore........................   46
By the Feal's wave benighted................................  119
By the hope within us springlng.......................   32
Come o'er the sea........................................ 68
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer............   76
Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief....   23
Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee.......   81
Desmond's Song................................1.....    119
Down in the valley come meet me to-night................            100
Drink of this cup-you'll find there's a spell in.............   99
Drink to her who long....................................   27
Echo..................................................    104
Erin! oh Erin!........................................    26
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes................            4
Eveleen's Bower.......................................   19




1'80           INDEX TO THE MELODIES.
Fairest! put on awhile.................;..............  112
Farewell! - but whenever you welcome the hour........            64
Fill the bumper fair.................................... 79
Fly not yet;'tis just the hour.............................    7
Forget not the field where they perished................   92
From this hour the pledge is given........................      140
Go where Glory waits thee.........................     1
Has sorrow thy young days shaded........................   69
Here we dwell, in holiest bowers........................   51
How dear to me the hour when daylight dies............   14
How oft has the Benshee cried................................. 16
How  sweet the answer Echo makes.....104........... 104
I'd mourn the hopes that leave me........................   67
If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air....................   90
Ill Omens................. 31
In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown........   84
In yonder valley there dwelt, alone........................   117
I saw  from  the beach, when the morning was shining.....   78
1 saw thy form  in youthful prime.............   45
It is not the tear at this moment shed....................   38
I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here.............  131
I wish I was by that dim Lake.........................  121
Lay his sword by his side.............................  136
Lesbia hath a beaming eye....................................   43
Let Erin remember the days of old.........................   20
Like the bright lamp that shone in Kildare's holy fane....   26
Love and the Novice................................ 51
Love's young Dream......................................   39
My gentle Harp, once more I waken......................   82
Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns.........         48
Ne'er ask- the hour-what is it to us....................   95
Night clos'd around the conqueror's way................  33
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers................    70




INDEX TO THE MELODIES.                            181
O'Donohue's Mistress....................  102
Of all the fair months that round the sun.102
Oh Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore........................  135
Oh banquet not in those shining bowers...................  104
Oh blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers............   28
Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade........    5
Oh could we do with this world of ours................  137
Oh doubt me not..................................    65
Oh for the swords of former time........................   94
Oh had we some bright little isle of our own.............   63
Oh haste and leave this sacred isle....................          12
Oh the days are gone, when Beauty bright.................   39
Oh the sight entrancing....................   108
Ohil the Shamrock...................................   53
Oh think not my spirits are always as light............             8
Oh'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove............    61
Oh weep for the hour...................... 19
Oh where's the slave so lowly........................   75
Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom  we know............             ]01
On Music.............................................    37
One bumper at parting, tho' many....................   56
Quick! we have but a second...........1................   114
Remember the glories of Brien the Brave................             3
Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart........   86
Rich and rare were the gems she wore...................   10
Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark...................  96
Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave....   106
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps........   47
She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre....................  123
Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water.................    22
Silence is in our festal halls............................  141
Sing-sing-Music was given............................  124
Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me.......................  126
Song of Innisfail.........................................    132
Song of the Battle Eve................................  127
Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high............  133
St. Senanus and the Lady........................                  12




182                INDEX TO MELODIES.
Sulilime was the warning that Liberty- spoke...........       ~   23
Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well........................    110
Take back  the virgin page............................    14
The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking............  105
The dream of those days...............................            139
Thee, thee, only thee.....................................  105
The  Fortune-teller...........................      100
The harp that once through Tara's halls................              6
The Irish Peasant to his Mistress........................   35
The Legacy............................................    15,The Meeting of the Waters............................   11
The Minstrel boy to the war is gone.;.................              60
The Mountain Sprite.............................. 117
The Night Dance........................................  133
The Origin of the Harp................................    38
The Prince's Day........................................   41
The Parallel............................................   97
The Song of Fionnuala................................    22
The Song of O'Ruark....................................    61
The time I've lost in wooing............................   74
The valley lay smiling before me........................   61
The Wandering Bard...................................   129
The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall..........  138
The, young May moon is beaming, love....................   59
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet............   11
There are sounds of mirth................................  134
They came from a land beyond the sea..............  132
They know not my heart, who believe there can be........  121
They may rail at this life-from  the hour I began it.......  93
This life is all chequered with pleasures and woes........   52
Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them........   41
Though humble the banquet.................  125
Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see............    9
Through Erin's Isle....................................    53
Through grief and through danger........................:35'Tis believ'd that this Harp............................   3;'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw  breaking........   77'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove................   34'Tis the last rose of summer........................               53




INDEX TO MELODIES.                         183
To Ladies' eyes around, boy............,...............   91
To-morrow, comrade, we.................                       127'Twas one of those dreams that by music are brought....    111
War Song.............................................   3
Weep on, weep on, your hour is past....................  42'We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast........    18
What life like that of the bard can be....................  129
What the bee is to the floweret..........................   51
When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast lov'd....   86
When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow........   31
Whene'er I see those smiling eyes....................         89
When first 1 met thee, warm and young...................    71
When he, who adores thee, has left but the name........        5
When in death I shall calm recline........................   15
When thro' life unblest we rove........................   37
While gazing on the moon's light........................   30
While History's Muse the memorial was keeping........    73
Wreath the bowl........................................   87
Yes, sad one of Sion-if closely resembling............   97
You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride................  66
SACRED SONGS.
Almighty God! when round thy shrine....................  159
Angel of Charity, who, from above........................  161
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean......15.........  157
Awake, arise, thy light is come.............. ~...   167
Behold the sun, how bright.......................         16
But who shall see the glorious day......................    158
Come not, 0 Lord! in the dread robe of splendor....  155
Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish..........  166
Fallen is thy throne, O Israel............................  146
Go forth to the Mount-bring the olive-branch home........ 175
Go, let me weep, there's bliss in tears..           155




184           INDEX TO SACRED SONGS.
Hark!-'tis the breeze of twilight calling................      172
How lightly mounts the Muse's wing..............                174
Is it not sweet to think, hereafter......................*  176
Like morning, when her early breeze.......                      165
Lord who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid........  162
O fair! 0 purest! be thou the dove....................  160
O Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear................  150
O teach me to love thee, to feel what thou art.163
Since first thy u ord awaked my heart................           171
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea............  154
The bird, let loose in eastern skies........................  149
There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary.......   170
The turf shall be my fragrant shrine....................   152
This world is all a fleeting show........................  147
Thou art, O God! the life and light..................    145
War against Babylon shout we around....................  177
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb............  151
Weep, weep for him, the Man of God....................  164
Were not the sinful Mary's tears........................  156
Where is your dwelling, ye sainted..................             173
Who is the maid my spirit seeks.............                    148