NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

AIR-Luggelaw.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,

When, half-awakening from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full quire of heav'n is near,—
Then came that voice, when, all forsaken.
This heart long had sleeping lain,

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind through some wreathed shell;
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell !
'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken!—
I'd live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign blessed sounds again!

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

1

AIR-O Patrick, fy from me.

WHEN first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, though false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go,-

The heart whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,

Deserves that thou shouldst break it!

When every tongue thy follies named,
I fled th' unwelcome story;

Or found, in even the faults they blamed,
Some gleams of future glory.

I still was true when nearer friends

Conspired to wrong, or slight thee;

The heart, that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,-

Some day, perhaps, thou❜lt waken

From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee;

The few, who loved thee once have fled,
And they who flatter-scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;

The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank, cold hearts beneath it!
Go-go-though worlds were thine,

I would not now surrender

One taintless tear of mine

For all thy guilty splendour!

And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever!
On her who, in thy fortune's fall,

With smiles had still received thee,

And gladly died to prove thee all

Her fancy first belived thee.

Go-go-'tis vain to curse,

"Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse

Than guilt and shame have made thee.

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

Ai-Paddy Whack.

WHILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But, oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,

With a pencil of light,

That illumed all the volume her WELLINGTON'S name.

Hail, Star of my Isle!» said the Spirit, all sparkling

With beams such as break from her own dewy

skies;

«Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, «I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise. For, though heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot,

And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame;

But, oh there is not

One dishonouring blot

On the wreath that encircles my WELLINGTON'S name!

And still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,' The grandest, the purest, e'en thou hast yet

known :

Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,

Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy

own.

At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,

Go plead for the land that first cradled thy fame

And bright o'er the flood

Of her tears and her blood

Let the rainbow of Hope be her WELLINGTON's

name !"