Yet let me keep the book;

Oft will my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you:
Like you it's fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fair

To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.

Haply when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should caliner thoughts arise
Tow'rds you and home,

Faucy may trace some line

Worthy those eyes to meet; Thoughts that not bura, but shine, Pure, calm, and sweet.

And as the records are,

Which wand'ring seamen keep,

Led by the hidden star

Through winter's deep;

So may the words I write

Tell through what storms I stray, You still the unseen light

Guiding my way.




WHEN in death I shall calm rechine,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue while it linger'd here:
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow,

To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn 'till night.

When the light of my song is o'er,

Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door

Where weary travellers love to call:

1 In every house was one or two harps free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music.-O'Halloran

Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing

On lips that beauty hath seldom blest!
But when some warm devoted lover

To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.


AIR--The Blak Maid.

How oft has the Benshie cried!

How oft has death untied

Bright links that glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwined by Love!

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth!
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth!

Long may the fair and brave

Sigh o'er the hero's grave!

We've fallen upon gloomy days; '

Star after star decays:

Ev'ry bright name that shed

Light o'er the land is fled.

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy or hope, that ne'er returneth ;
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er the hero's bicr!

Oh ! quench'd ore our beacon lights,
Thou of the hundred fights!

I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character which it is my object to preserve through this work, to allude to that sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aid of talent and integrity.

2 This designation, which has been appned to Lord NELSON before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a Poem, by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Nial, which is quoted in the « Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland, » p. 433. « Con of the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeat with thy victories ! »>

Thou on whose burning tongue

Truth, peace, and freedom hung !3
Both mute-but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,

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WE may roam through this world like child at a feast,

Who but sips of a sweet and then flies to the


And when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east, We may order our wings, and be set off to the


But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,

Are the dearest gift that heaven supplies, We never need leave our own Green Isle

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bright eyes. Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd

3 Fox, ultimus Romanorum.

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