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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 lov'd name!

Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first-love trac'd;

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

'Twas odour fled

As soon as shed;

'Twas morning's winged 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.32

Air-St. Patrick's Day.

Tho' 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 enwreath'd it round with flowers,
There comes a new link

Our spirit 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!

Tho' 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. 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.

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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 rous'd by the foe, on the 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 that beams through each suffering part,

And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's day!

Weep on, weep on.

Air-The Song of Sorrow.

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 warned in vain ;Oh, freedom! once thy flame hath fled,

It never lights again!

Weep on-perhaps in after days

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

And, when they tread the ruin'd isle,

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 profan'd what God had given, Till some were heard to curse the shrine Where others knelt to heaven!"

Lesbia has a beaming eye.

Air-Nora Creina.

Lesbia has 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 her looks, but every one
Like unexpected light surprises!
Oh, 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 has lac'd it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it!

Oh! my Nora's gone 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 has a wit refin'd,

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

To dazzle merely, or to wound us?

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