Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,

So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known; Each wave that we danc'd on at morning ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best

light.

Oh! who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame, And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning,

Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame!

Fill the bumper fair!

Air-Bob and Joan.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes

As when through the frame

It shoots from brimming glasses.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions,

And bring down its ray

From the starr'd dominions:

So we, sages, sit,

And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning,

From the heav'n of wit

Draw down all its lightning!

Fill the bumper fair! etc.

Wouldst thou know what first

Made our souls inherit

This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit!

It chanc'd upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us.

Fill the bumper fair! etc.

The careless youth, when up
To glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup,
To hide the pilfer'd fire in :

But oh, his joy! when round
The halls of heaven spying,
Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.
Fill the bumper fair! etc.

Some drops were in the bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the sparks of soul
Mix'd their burning treasure!
Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us-
Hence its mighty power

O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair! etc.

The farewell to my Harp.

Air-New Langolee.

Dear harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, 50 When proudly, my own island harp! I unbound thee,

And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,

That e'en in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

Dear harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go-sleep, with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,

Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.

My gentle harp!

Air-The Coina, or Dirge,

My gentle harp! once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumb'ring strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those harps whose heavenly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken-
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.

And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,
When many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes-that now are turn'd to shame.
Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Though joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.

Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure

As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,

Invoke thy breath for freedom's strains, When e'en the wreaths in which I dress thee Are sadly mix'd-half flowers, half chains!

But come—if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy-oh breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be ;
How lightly, e'en mid gloom surrounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill—
Like Memnon's broken image, sounding,
'Mid desolation tuneful still!51

As slow our ship.

Air-The Girl I left behind me.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So, loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;

So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us!