'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,-
Eyes of most unholy blue!

She had loved him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And, when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah! your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And, with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.
Glendalough! thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the Saint (yet ah! too late)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, "Heaven rest her soul!"
Round the Lake light music stole ;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide!

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;-

Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow;

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own lovèd island of sorrow.

NAY, TELL ME NOT.

NAY, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam

Been lost in the stream

That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,
The balm of thy sighs,

Still float on the surface, and hallow my
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,

The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

bowl.

They tell us that Love, in his fairy bower,
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bathed the other with mantling wine.
Soon did the buds

That drank of the floods

Distill'd by the rainbow decline and fade;
While those which the tide

Of ruby had dyed

All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

AVENGING and bright fall the swift sword of Erin' On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'dfond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,

For every

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.
By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling,2
When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore—
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore-

We swear to revenge them!-no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head!

Yes, monarch! though sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

He.-WHAT the bee is to the floweret,

When he looks for honey-dew,

Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

I The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called "Deirdri; or, the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach," which has been translated literally from the Gaelic by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transac tions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the "Darthula" of Macpherson is founded. The treachery of Conor, king of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. "This story," says Mr. O'Flanagan, "has been from time immemorial held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, 'The Death of the Children of Touran,'The Death of the Children of Lear' (both regarding Tuatha de Denans), and this 'the Death of the Children of Usnach,' which is a Milesian story. At the commencement of these Melodies will also be found a ballad upon the story of the Children of Lear, or Lir; “Silent, O Moyle!" &c.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a very lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement which they merit.

2 "O Naisi! view the cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red."-Deirdri's Song.

3 Ulster.

She. What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

She. But, they say, the bee's a rover,

Who will fly when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.
He.-Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
'Tis but right that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them while they may.

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

"HERE we dwell in holiest bowers,

Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers To heaven in mingled odour ascend.

Do not disturb our calm, O Love!

So like is thy form to the cherubs above,
It well might deceive such hearts as ours."
Love stood near the Novice and listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.

"Who would have thought," the urchin cries,
"That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"
Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.
He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast,

And angels themselves would admit such a guest,
If he came to them clothed in Piety's vest.

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEA-
SURES AND WOES.

THIS life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep-

Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup-if existence would cloy, With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,

And the light brilliant Folly that flashes and dies. When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, Through fields full of light, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.1 Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted And left their light urns all as empty as mine. But pledge me the goblet-while Idleness weaves These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see One bright drop or two that has fallen on the leaves From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.

O THE SHAMROCK!

THROUGH Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,

As Love and Valour wander'd,

With Wit, the sprite,

Whose quiver bright

A thousand arrows squander'd;

Where'er they pass,

A triple grass 2

Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,

As softly green

As emerald seen
Through purest crystal gleaming.

O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf

Of Bard and Chief,

Old Erin's native Shamrock!

1 Proposito florem prætulit officio.-Propert. lib. i. eleg. 20.

2

Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Shamrock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, "standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil, or three-coloured grass, in her hand."