!" said the spirit, all sparkling
break from her own dewy skies;
row, deserted and darkling,
ne glory like thine to arise.
number'd, unblest was their lot,
y sleep in the crossways of fame;
ere is not

During blot

acircles my Wellington's name!

own of thy toils is remaining,
›urest e'en thou hast yet known;
ask, other nations unchaining,
I the deep wounds of thy own.
ne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
nd that first cradled thy fame,--
o'er the flood

s and her blood

pe be her Wellington's name!"

No, not more welcome.

Air-Luggelaw.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full choir of heav'n is near-
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 through some wreathed shell;
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed 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.

Air-O Patrick, fly from me.

When 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,

When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
I fled th' unwelcome story;

Or found, in e'en 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.

Even 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 pledg'd to slaves,

No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,

Hás 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 splendour!

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 for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still receiv'd thee,

And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd thee.
Go-go-'tis vain to curse,
'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.

While history's muse.

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 illum'd all the volume, her Wellington's name!