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If drinking deep, deep of the same "cup of trembling,” Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken, And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown; In her streets, in her halls, desolation hath spoken, And "while it is day yet, her sun has gone down."56

Like thine doth her exile, mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old.

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, "the forsaken,”57 Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves; And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,

Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves.

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the

morrow

That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night, When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and

sorrow,

Was shiver'd, at once, like a reed in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City 58

Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips, And the world she had trampled on, heard without pity The howl in her halls and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came

over,

Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, And-a ruin at last for the earth-worm to coverThe Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust. 59

Drink of this cup.

Air-Paddy O'Rafferty.

Drink of this cup-you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality—
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Would you forget the dark world we are in, Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it; But would you rise above earth, till akin

To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it.

Send round the cup-for oh, there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality— Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup is a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter form'd with such power To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing; Its magic began when, in autumn's rich hour, As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.

There, having by nature's enchantment been fill'd With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather, This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd, To enliven such hearts as are here brought together!

Then drink of the cup-you'll find there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality— Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And though, perhaps—but breathe it to no oneLike caldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful, In secret this philter was first taught to flow on; Yet, 'tis not the less potent for being unlawful.

What, tho' it may taste of the smoke of that flame, Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden

Fill up there's fire in some hearts I could name, Which may work too its charm, though now lawful and hidden.

So drink of the cup-for oh, there's a spell in Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

The Fortune-teller.

Air.-Open the door softly.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light,
To young maiden shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
These secrets, between you and me and the sky,
Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition-the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

Then to the phantom be thou but kind,
And round you so fondly he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel, with a warmth of emotion-
An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.

Oh, ye dead.

Air-Plough Tune.

Oh, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give

From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,

Why leave you thus your graves,

In far-off fields and waves,

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed, To haunt this spot, where all

Those eyes that wept your fall,

And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your own, lie

dead?

It is true-it is true-we are shadows cold and wan; It is true-it is true-all the friends we loved are gone. But, oh! thus e'en in death,

So sweet is still the breath

Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er,

That, ere condemn'd we go

To freeze mid Hecla's snow,60

We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more!

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