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Hence the goblet's shower
Hath such spells to win us-
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair! etc.
THE FAREWELL TO MY HARP..
DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found
The cold chain of silence1 had hung o'er thee long,
In that rebellious but beautiful song «When Erin first rose» there is, if I recollect right, the following line:
«The dark chain of silence was thrown o er the deep.» The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of «a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near-Finn's palace, at Almhaim, where the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce à cessa
When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and
The warm lay of love and the light note of glad
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sad
That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee
Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy num
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall
Go,-sleep, with the sunshine of fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than
If the pulse of the patrist, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lav, 'tis thy glory alone;
tion of hostilities, shook the Chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks.» -See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Morni, in Miss Prook's «Reliques of Irish Poetry.»
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own!
MY GENTLE HARP.
IR The Coina or Dirge
My gentle Harp: once more waken
But, like those harps, whose heavenly skil
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Invoke thy breath for freedom's strains, When ev'n the wreaths, in which I dress thee, Are sadly mix'd-half flow'rs, half chairs!
But come,-if yet thy frame can borrow
1 Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chorde, Atque vetus Thebe centum jacet obruta portis. Juvenal.
AS SLOW OUR SHIP.
AIR-The Girl I left behind me.
As slow our ship her foamy track
When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
And, when in other climes we meet