« VorigeDoorgaan »
Yet let me keep the book;
Oft will my heart renew,
To let wild passion write
Haply when from those eyes
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 RECLINE.
WHEN in death I shall calm rechine,
To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
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,
Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest!
To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.
. HOW OFT HAS THE BANSHEE CRIED.
AIR--The Blak Maid.
How oft has the Benshie cried!
How oft has death untied
Bright links that glory wove,
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth!
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
Oh ! quench'd ore our beacon lights,
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
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.