The clouds pass'd soon From the chaste cold moon, And heaven smil'd again with her vestal flame; But none will see the day When the clouds shall pass away, Which that dark hour left on Eveleen's fame. The white snow lay On the narrow path-way, When the Lord of the Valley cross'd over the moor; And many a deep print On the white snow's tint Show'd the track of his footsteps to Eveleen's door. The next sun's ray Soon melted away Every trace of 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 THE DAYS OF OLD. Air-"The Red Fox." LET Erin remember the days of old, "This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the monarch of Ireland in the 10th century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, 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 History of Ireland, Vol. I. Book 9. "Military order of knights were very early established in Ireland; long before the birth of Christ we find a he reditary order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craoibhe 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 Craoibhe 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, &c. Part I. Chap. 5. The inscription upon Connor's tomb, (for the fac-simile of which I ain indebted to Mr. Murphy, chaplain of the On Lough Neagh's bank* as the fisherman strays, Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime, late Lady Moira) has not, I believe, been noticed by any antiquarian or traveller. Translation of an ancient Irish inscription upon a tombstone in the abbey of Multifernon, county of Westmeath, Ireland: A yellow lion upon green sattin, The standard of the heroes of the Red Branch, During his frequent wars for the expulsion of foreigners. 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 aquæ illius turres ecclesiasticas, quæ more patriæ arctæ sunt et altæ, necnon et rotundæ, sub undis manifeste, sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus reique causam admirantibus frequenter ostendunt." Topogr. Hib. Dist. 2. c. 9. THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.* Air-" Arra, my dear Eveleen." SILENT, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping, Yet still doth the pure light its dawning delay. *To make this story intelligible in a song, would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorized to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was by some supernatural power transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers of Ireland, till the coming of Christianity: when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release. 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 Coun tess of Moira. I When will that day-star mildly springing, COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. Air-"We brought the summer with us." 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 are fill'd from the same bright bowl, The fool that would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I 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! |