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THE HARP THAT ONCE
THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

THE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,

And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives

Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

FLY NOT YET.

FLY not yet; 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,

And maids who love the moon. 'Twas but to bless these hours of shade That beauty and the moon were made; 'Tis then their soft attractions glowing Set the tides and goblets flowing.

Oh! stay, oh! stay,-
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet; the fount that played
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began

To burn when night was near;
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay, -oh! stay,-
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHe wore.

RICH and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;

But, oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. "Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?

Are Erin's sons so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm: For, though they love women and

golden store,

Sir Knight! they love honor and virtue more."

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green

isle;

And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride.

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,

While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,

So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,

Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws

Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and

our woes,

To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,

For which joy has no balm and afflic tion no sting:

Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoy. ment will stay,

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DRINK TO HER.
DRINK to her who long
Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers played,

It yields not half the tone. Then here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy.

At Beauty's door of glass

Where Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her, "which might pass?" She answered, "he who could." With golden key Wealth thought

To pass but 'twould not do: While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through. So here's to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

The love that seeks a home
Where wealth and grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome

That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh! the poet's love

Can boast a brighter sphere; Its native home's above,

Though woman keeps it here. Then drink to her who long

Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song

What gold could never buy.

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD. OH! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers

Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame,

He was born for much more, and in happier hours

His soul might have burned with a holier flame;

The string that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,

Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart;

And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,

Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart.

But, alas for his country!-her pride has gone by,

And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;

O'er the ruin her children in secret

must sigh,

For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.

Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray;

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