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OF ALL THE FAIR MONTHS THAT ROUND
AIR-The Little and Great Mountain.
Of all the fair months that round the sun
1 The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's account of Killarney, or, more fully detailed, in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen, on the morning of May-day gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flnug wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path.
Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in
Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light leaves
Fair lake, fair lake thou'rt dear to me,
Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.
Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
White steed, white steed, most joy to thee,
Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me:
While, white as the sails some bark unfurls,
Of all the sweet death that maidens die,
love with him; and, at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning, threw herself into the Lake.
I The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, «O'Donohue's white horses.>>
Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, Which under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, dear love I'll die for thee.
HOW SWEET THE ANSWER ECHO MAKES.
Ilow sweet the answer Echo makes
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
Than e'er, beneath: the moonlight's star
"Tis when the sigh in youth sicere.
And only then,
The sigh, that's breathed for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
OH, BANQUET NOT.
Он, banquet not in those shining bowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee. And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour—
Our guests the shades of former
years, Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.
There, while the myrtle's withering boughs Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead. Or, as some blighted laurel waves Its branches o'er the dreary spot, We'll drink to those neglected graves, Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!
THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE!
AIR-«Staca an Mharaga,» (The Market-stake.)
THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
Like spells, that nought on earth can break,