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, oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, To be doom'd to find something still that is dear;

And to know, when far from the lips we love, We have but to make love to the lips we are near!

The Irish peasant to his mistress.

Air

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;
Oh! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd e'en the sorrows that made me more
dear to thee.

Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd;

Thy crown was of briars, 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 would rather be, Than wed what I lov'd 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 ling'ring

chains!

That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains;

Oh! do not believe them-no chain could that soul

subdue;

Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!29

On Music.

Air-Banks of Banna.

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;

Oh! how welcome breathes the strain, Weakning 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 flow'rs,

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!-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 e'en more false than they;

Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!

It is not the tear at this moment shed.30

Air-The Sixpence.

It 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 soul that's fled, Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him:

"Tis the tear through many a long day wept, Through a life by his loss all shaded;

'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept, When all lighter griefs have faded!

1

Oh! thus shall we mourn: and his memory's light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve them; For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright, When we think how he lived but to love them!

And, as buried saints the grave perfume, Where, fadeless, they've long been lying,

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom From the image he left there in dying!

The origin of the harp.

Air-Gage Fane.

"Tis believ'd that this harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a syren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often at eve through the bright billow rov'd,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she lov'd.

But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep, And in tears all the night her cold ringlets to steep, Till Heav'n 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 cheek smil'd the

same

While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd round the

frame; [rings, And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings!31

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 be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

Love's young dream.

Air-The Old Woman.

Oh! the days are gone, when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;

When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love!

• New hope may bloom,

And days may come,
Of milder, calmer beam,

But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream!

Oh! there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!