'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.

Thus his memory, like some holy light,

Kept alive in 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 fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,

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

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,
To meet on the green shore a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,
Till Heaven look'd with pity on true love so warm,
And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheeks smiled the same-
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was changed to bright chords, uttering melody's spell.
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 speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away!

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

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:

No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;

Though he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;

He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,

In all his noon of fame,

As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,

And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one loved name.

No-that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;

Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.

'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's wingèd dream;
'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:

Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

THE PRINCE'S DAY.1

THOUGH dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.
But just when the chain

Has ceased to pain,

And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,
There comes a new link

Our spirits to sink

Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.
Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.

This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.

While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right,

Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,

The standard of Green

In front would be seen

Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.
He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget:
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.

The gem may be broke

By many a stroke,

But nothing can cloud its native ray,
Each fragment will cast

A light to the last,

And thus Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay;
A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.

In vain the hero's heart hath bled;

The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain ;—

O Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,

It never lights again!

Weep on-perhaps in after days,

They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.

And when they tread the ruin'd aisle

Where rest at length the lord and slave,

They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?

""Twas fate," they'll say, "a wayward fate,
Your web of discord wove;

And, while your tyrants join'd in hate,
You never join'd in love.

But hearts fell off that ought to twine,
And man profaned what God had given,
Till some were heard to curse the shrine
Where others knelt to Heaven."

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

LESBIA hath a beaming eye,

But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon

My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises.
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies

In many eyes,

But love in yours, my Nora Creina! Lesbia wears a robe of gold,

But all so close the nymph hath laced it, Not a charm of beauty's mould

Presumes to stay where Nature placed it. Oh, my Nora's gown for me,

That floats as wild as mountain breezes,

Leaving every beauty free

To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress

Is loveliness

The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.

Lesbia hath a wit refined,

But when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're design'd

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

Pillow'd on my Nora's heart

In safer slumber Love reposes-
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
O my Nora Creina, dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina,
Wit, though bright,

Hath no such light

As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I SAW thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,

Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!

So, veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,

And that which charm'd all other eyes
Seem'd worthless in thine own, Mary!

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!1

BY THAT LAKE WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.2

By that Lake whose gloomy shore

Skylark never warbles o'er,3

Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.

66

Here, at least," he calmly said,

"Woman ne'er shall find my bed."
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, "Heu! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!"

2 This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendaloughi, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

8 There are many other curious traditions concerning this lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.