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Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot

While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter Give the light of your look to each sorrowing
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh 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?

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

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 oh 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 sigh'd for in vain,

COME, send round the wine, and leave points of Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you

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, who would quarrel for diff'rence of hue,

Deserves not the comfort then shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my

side

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Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,

light,

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Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

Til it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart

West

Would entwine itself verdantly still.
I

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1 The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions:-" Apud Kildariam occurrit ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus." Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern, dist. 2. c. 34.

2 Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the Lily, has applied this image to a still more important object.

3 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

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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."

4 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, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was nOW become the land of concord."-Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison.

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As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,

Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT. | A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's kisses,

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Much more dear

That mild sphere,

Which near our planet smiling came;'-
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own;
While brighter eyes unheeded play,

See the Hymn. attributed to Alcæus, Ev uvorov kladi ro Eidos *****—” I will earry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmoand Aristogiton," &c.

**Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the Cade moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the as much more beneficial than they all put together."— Tom's Theory. &c.

In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we

Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view. Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces,

She brush'd him he fell, alas! never to rise: "Ah! such," said the girl, "is the pride of our faces,

"For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole thro' the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fall'n dew; And a rose, farther on, look'd so tempting and glowing,

That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:

find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, Non mille, quod absens.

3 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."

4 An emblem of the soul.

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THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.'

Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;

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 even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd

and scorn'd,

adorn'd;

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, oh how faint, 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.

Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT She woo'd me to temples, whilst thou lay'st hid in

caves,

Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;

[be, Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought

from thee.

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SHED.

Ir is not the tear at this moment shed,

When the cold turf has just been laid 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, thro' many a long day wept, 'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded; "Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have 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 sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!

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