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ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN TINE
ERIN! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Erin! thy suent tear never shall cease,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in Heaven's sight,
OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.
AIR-The Brown Maid.
Gu! breathe not his name― let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid!
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head!
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
WHEN HE WHO ADORES THEE..
AIR-The Fox's Sleep.
WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name Of his faults and his sorrows behind,
wilt thou weep when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd!
Yes, weep! and, however my foes may condemn. Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, I have been but too faithful to thee!
I These words a lude to a story in a old Irish manuscript, which is too long and melancholy to be inserted here.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love. Every thought of my reason was thine :In my last humble pray'r to the Spirit above, Thy name shall be mingled with mine!
Oh! bless'd are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee!
THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.
1HE harp that once through Tara's halls,
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled :-
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er;
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
Its tale of ruin tells.-
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To shew that still she lives!
FLY NOT YET.
FLY not yet, 'tis just the hour,
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
Oh! stay,-oh! stay,-.
Joy so seldom weaves a chain,
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.
Fly not yet! the fount that play'd,
In times of old through Ammon's shade,'
Yet still, like sons of mirth, began
To burn when night was near;
And thus should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
When did morning ever break!
OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.
AIR-John O'Reilly the Active.
On! think not my spirits are always as light,
I Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.