WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE THE MEMORIAL WAS KEEPING.

Air-"Paddy Whack."

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, oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write,

With a pencil of light,

That illumin'd the wholevolume, her WELLINGTON'S name!

"Hail, Star of my Isle!" said the Spirit, all spark

ling

With beams such as burst 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, oh! there is not

One dishonouring blot

On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON'S

name!

"And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining, The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet known; Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own, At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,

Go plead for the land that first cradled thy fameAnd bright o'er the flood

Of her tears and her blood,

Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON'S name!"

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

Air-"Peas upon a trencher."

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 bung with gaze enchanted,

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Like him, the sprite,*
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
Like him, too, Beauty won me;
But, while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray

Was turn'd away,

Oh! 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! th' endeavour,
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance

Is now as weak as ever!

This 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 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.

OH! WHERE'S THE SLAVE.

Air-" Sios agus sios liom."

OH! where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,

Would pine beneath them slowly?
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,
Our 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!

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COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Air-"Lough Sheeling."

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer! Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast,
And the heart and the hand all thy own to the last.

Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame ?

I knew 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,Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,Through the furnace, unshrinking thy steps to pur

sue,

And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!